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.