Captured by the Snow Queen

(to my childhood friends, Lucy and Alv)

The childhood time was golden and slow
Like honey from a plastic bear bottle
The old apricot tree would get dressed in pink lace
Alive with the purposeful buzz of the bees
The wet clay between fingers was fat and pregnant
With a host of ideas demanding immediate implementation
Even the moss had its own inimitable sligtly pungent smell
Colored sea glass spoke of distant shores and adventure
Dead goldfish were awarded lavish funerals
Cats on the roofs engaged in mysterious rites
A boy and a girl were reading a book together,
Their shoulders barely touching, and it was important:
Trust and intimacy; in November the wind tore off
Acacia pods, sharp, curved and pointed Tartar swords,
Their seeds perfectly smooth, their juice bitter-sweet and gooey.
The unbearable backpacks were dragged on the ground,
And even the pouring rain could not interrupt
The conversation of two fifth graders.
And at home there was the hot stove, yellow light and cocoa
The fervent wait for the snow would be followed
By the impatient hope for the spring
The last icicles like some crystal amber imprisoned
All sorts of strange little creatures, wood chips and sand.
Sitting down by the bluish mounds of ice by the water
Lost in the halls of the Snow Queen,
I am still expecting a miracle.
December 31, 2008