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



do not see or hear

winter’s songbird

or the wheat’s ripening


but we’re

rounding up the silver sickles anyway.