Falling Snow

The snow falls through space and before dark

our Peredelkino is transformed

into a new and nameless place.

Look! The sign, ``Creativity House''

(What does that mean anyway?) is wiped clean

and the recreated field echoes

the anguished moans of the suburban train.

Small orchards, vegetable patches behind

each house loom larger than what lies

underneath. To prove again

her truth, nature tricks the eye.

In perfect silence our hill fills

with old voices of song:

We do not belong to this village

but to the universe beyond.

There between the road and stars

someone is praising motion by

swooping, gliding on his skis

while I pause between word and sigh

knowing mobility needs poetry

to prove the triumph of the mind.

I stop in this storm between

will and word to wait.

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