PINK HORIZON IN SIBERIA
At last, a country large enough to hold melancholy,
the melancholy of a family adjusted to cold,
the cold which dwells at the top of birch trees.
White hair of mother no metaphorical snow
but real, crystalline dreams exhaled into cold,
and the boy with the milk route, returning home
to strip and stand naked before a kerosene heater.
Behind him, distant hours of dawn rise and rise
but do not break. His fatherís breath pops and cracks
amongst the roomís somnambulant trees. The boy
shudders once, while white owls wait in birch trees,
those trees whose shadows forks the pink horizon.
fiction poetry "fact" photography