«By candlelight, / in midday dark, I’ll warm / your words beside the stove; / frost’s bitten them. Frost’s wordless spell / had made your letter dumb. / The letters melt, drip tears; / calling me home.»
«I felt in soul and body, / for the first time in years, / the silence after a blizzard, / the even light of the stars. Should the magi wish to see / their kindness to the end, / they’d bring me sheets of paper / A candle. Matches. And a pen. »
«From a frost-chilled / line of poetry / my anguish will drop / like a ripe berry. Rosehip juice will dye / fine crystals of snow — / and a stranger will smile / on his lonely way. Blending dirty sweat / with the purity of a tear, / he will carefully collect / the tinted crystal...»
«Our tools are primitive / and simple: / a rouble’s worth of paper, / a hurrying pencil, we need no more / to build a castle — / high in the air — / above the world’s bustle. Dante needed nothing else / to build gates / into that Hell hole / founded on ice.»