Locked away we’re like a Russian novel:

                                               the hermit and the cowboy,

me stepping from the train.

                                               A world of snow. Whose Great Coat a den

of baby foxes skinned and sewn together.

                                               We’re a field of stars,

all the peasants’ sheep shorn in haste

                                               made into a carpet placed beneath my feet,

the stationmaster’s son sent through the night to find us

                                               this small room.

’s the foxes and the wolves.

                                               ’s the doves with their curved necks

waiting out the rain.  ’s the grass

                                               starting to shake. ’s the medals

on whose own bureau, the silver

                                               glinting on whose horse’s bridle.

I said, Samovar sounds like a knight.

                                               It’s just a fancy tea pot. ’s my samovar,

the steam that makes my cheeks glow

                                               so all the women talk. ’s the snow

covering the wolf’s tracks,

                                               the party of sleds sent out and not returning

gives me whose alphabet of notes

                                               One by one each day. ’s a thousand pages

read across the endless plains til rides hard

                                               beneath my window and helps me down

as the first flakes fall and I say,

                                               You brought the first snow for me.