Anichkov Bridge

Snow dusts their flanks like sugar, those rearing horses frozen in time at the four corners of this world.

A bright rainbow spiral of New Year's streamer lies imbedded in the grey ice of the crusted pavement beneath my feet.

The sparkling shards of a green "champannskova" bottle crunch like ice as I walk over the merry wreckage of midwinter joy.

Biting wind, spiced with snow, floats across my face like confetti, but does not chill my heart.

And the soft grey sky hides the sun and covers the city like a blanket of forgiveness for the missed chances of our summer.

The snow seems to whisper "it is a new year", new chance, and nothing has been lost.

But the past.

All the shrapnel wounds of winters past, gouged in the stones beneath our feet, when the horses were buried, are filled again with warm pink stone.

And I can hardly feel where the holes once were through the fingers of my winter gloves.

1/6/94

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This Page is part of The Costumer's Manifesto by Tara Maginnis, Ph.D.  Copyright 1996-2006.   You may print out any of these pages for non-profit educational use such as school papers, teacher handouts, or wall displays.  You may link to any page in my site.