Outside Moscow the snow was clean,
a pressed white sheet spread and tucked
into the edges of the day. Your kiss faded
faster than the winter sun. Its pale memory
held no warmth or shadows where a dreamer
might find refuge. Night brushed the treetops
with grey smudges and crept across the sky
as swift and canny as foxes in a thicket.
Solitude was not enough for me, the losses
grown stale and distant. I came to Russia
so that I might shiver at her pallid dusks,
might feel my heart's wounds like broken glass
pressed hard against my bare palms.
At Suzdal I dipped my hands into the snowbank
past my wrists until the cold bit so deep
I could remember everything the world
had taken like a petty thief. There I drank
the twilght's rimed wind, an aperitif as sweet
as summer's lush and long forgotten bower.
~this poem was inspired by this lovely photo taken by Andrey and posted on Flickr. As he says in his post... "There we founded this heart."