(L.Martynov, from “Salt Crystals on an Axe”)

Springtime,
like the kind of invisible bird
that’s hurtled by winds blowing inland
from seas,
thrust wildly its claws in my bristling hat– furred, and lined with warm fleece.

“Wherefore are you trying to snatch up my hat?
It’s still cold at nights!”
– “You surely must smell the new grass roots, and that
Does come off the ice.”

“Indeed I can smell them! This gift is a grace
I pray to retain.
The sunset of Spring has illumined her days,
But has yet to wane.

Still now, as before, I can capture that slick
Spring’s pinions spry.
And later tonight, just as I fall asleep,
I’m sure I will fly.”