Mary F. C. Pratt's poem reads like a series of fragments: some seem to come from a woman who is unraveling, others from the people watching her. Instructions such as "Tie her boots" and "Take time to listen to her" suggest a caregiver or family member, while the first-person lines ("She is outraged at her mind," "I need to resubmit myself") seem to slip between her voice and the observer's. It is hard to tell exactly who is speaking, and that blur seems to be the point.
The mood is bleak but oddly tender. She calls the world hell and happiness a bad joke, yet she sings to her shoes and in her dilapidated house. The blunt line "Time is valid" gives the title a kind of stubborn answer: time is real, and it is running out. The ending turns quietly ominous, with a snow garden to clear and a hole to dig under the stairs. The poem asks us to keep her company, even when nothing makes sense.