And besides, it’s cold
and that makes me think of you.
One more night in Russia’s winter
listening to Rachmaninoff under vaulted ceilings.
What is it floating between me and the sun?
Frozen humidity reflecting light—a million tiny mirrors.
If I were a wish
I would be the hope of one more snowfall.
Make me twenty-one again
standing alone at night in snowdrift under foreign street
lamps.
Homesick for home away from home,
for fur in my hat and gloves,
for the crunch of white flakes beneath my boots,
for history every step along the frozen Neva,
for the past I’ll never see again.
Have you been in love before?
I have. She was Russia. And
she was cold.
