Blazing White

It was snowing too insistently,

snowflakes almost as big as the eye,

over nostrils, over half-open lips,

over the white lace shawl from my grandmother,

exactly when I was not supposed to wear it.

I had the profile of a porcelain statue

like a Russian girl proud of her kokoshnik.

 

After a while I started to breathe now and then,

choked first while crying, then while sighing

and finally while hiccuping.

Maybe because of cold and bewilderment,

or because of the strange story about mulled wine with cinnamon.

How could he possibly hide in my blood then

when I had grown up with bitter cherries and wild sorrel leaves,

when I had sipped  the milk foam my whole childhood

without crying on the blanket made of rough sheep wool?

 

How could that man travel between my heart’s mill stones

without being ground down completely?

Now only tears are sticking over nostrils, over half-open eyelids

like a glue from a sour cherry bark wound.

Not a single barrier, not a single one way sign,

not a single red traffic light

or at least a church with saint relics.

Reviews

[Dr. Wood ?]

you write so wonderfully well, I can't help but come back for more

[Cristina Moldoveanu]

I am glad you liked my poem Dr. Wood.

[Marie]

Sounds like you were in a snowstorm. Of course I've never seen one, so I wouldn't know...but your description is great.

[Cristina Moldoveanu]

Yes, I was in a snowstorm one day, long time ago.