Sense of Snow
The first snow has fallen today in the garden.
The black brain of the dirt,
mellowed by ants,
and the curlicues of still green grass
and piebald leaves
are beautifully strewn with white feathers.
Like angels had a pillow fight,
their claws tearing the white cloth with a quiet crackle.
The snow has come today as a stranger
a fluffy Trojan foal.
It's leaping around, playing, pretending to bite
my fingers spread wide apart.
And my soul rejoices
regardless of logic
or common sense,
even if it's all just elevating lie,
waltzing me around,
while camel colts of childhood
are peeping through the eye of a needle.
I'm taking the dwarfish garden in:
a black, bony cherry tree
has caught its second wind;
it's blooming almost like in spring;
it's caught a flock of hungry sparrows
on the spinning rods of its branches.
Here, in November,
amid the cooled inferno,
the first snow is gorgeous
like a white whale
surfacing from below the dirt.
Ahab lingers, but still,
points his harpoon away.
I'm Atlas in a down padded coat,
and I'm lifting the heavy sky with my eyes:
the black and blue barbell fringed with white
goes higher, higher, still higher.
I'm something else…
Dmitry Blizniuk is an author from Ukraine. His most recent poems have appeared River Poets Journal (USA), The Courtship of Winds (USA), Dream Catcher (UK), Reflections (UK), The Ilanot Review (Israel), In Layman's Terms (USA). He was a finalist for 2016 Award Open Eurasia, and The Best of Kindness 2017 (USA). He lives in Kharkov, Ukraine.
What is your spirit animal?
I feel close in spirit—in poetry—to the silver fox, because it is a cunning dexterous predator and has precious fur.
Rock, paper, or scissors?