Wind is eager to break its record –
throwing calm-ward flaked-frosted air,
like a shuffler for swapping deck cards
or awaken by hunters bear.
Every gust sticks with hundreds needles,
through the scarf slights of breath are taken,
winter’s twiddles, as fiddles’ tweedles,
crunchy sound leaves the path forsaken.
Don’t look back, when you hear a calling!
Death is howling, spills icy tears,
its intentions are justly holy,
breathless kisses lust free of fears.
Short as stops, long as shutting visions
blood is palpable, plods through vessels.
Ears are harking – precise incisions
of the flaked-frosted-calmness wrestles.
January 3, 2008
Iouri Lazirko
Copyright ©2008 Iouri Lazirko