An open kitchen door let in
A monolith of airborne steam;
For but a moment all was dim,
And old like those same childhood eves.
The weather's dry and silent still.
Five steps away, upon the street,
Embarrassed winter waits until
It opts to break our threshold's pleat.
Again it's our first winter time.
November greys touch distant ground;
White willows fade, like unled blind,
Bereft of cane, of dog, of sound.
A river and a willow share
The naked frozen ice across;
A table mirror perch'd will stare,
While darkest sky our dreams will gloss.
Like crossing roads half swept with snow,
Upon a birch-combed star it wanes;
These branches hold the far-off glow,
These cross'd roads crack the mirror's plane;
The birch suspects, in secret thought,
What wonders truly never cease:
A dacha winter far more fraught
Than tallest birches at their peak.