Snow masked frozen
land for miles and miles.
Further than naked eyes saw
winter’s spell,
not a fairytale at all,
numbed the country still.
Fur hats bobbed
up and down the streets, and
human breath revealed itself
warmly in frigid air.
Even the mighty Baltic
halted her blustery waves
and bowed in frosty reverence,
awaiting winter’s spell broken
by Light.
When I saw Russia in winter,
the wounded winter bird
sang over the land.
The golden harvest
gleamed in the healing sun.
Gazing grain waved
and nodded approval
to warming breezes.
In their blind
nakedness,
some
do not see or hear
winter’s songbird
or the wheat’s ripening
gold;
but we’re
rounding up the silver sickles anyway.