I suppose it is remnant of my enchantment with "Dr. Zhivago", but I (who can hardly bear our silly little Texas winters) long for a Russian winter. Well, perhaps not an entire winter, but a week or two in this spot above. I want a cape lined with something crazy like beaver fur, some boots that lace up and a time machine...
~cue "Lara's Theme"...
In real world, Iam shivering because it is below 60! EEEK! Not fit for man nor beast! Luckily i am neither, so I will survive!
I MUST tidy my studio some today or the Art Police will be pounding on my door!
And now I will leave you with a poem I wrote...
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.