This is not a poem.
This is me, a cranky magpie, waiting for green,
seeing little sign of progress.
Waving willow-branches defiantly.
A brand-new iceberg turns blue
just after calving from the mother-glacier.
Do I have a similar excuse?
It's like that time, when, during Spring,
I marched down Leninsky Prospekt
to see what there was to see,
besides a titanium Gagarin,
in a state of being perpetually launched.
I found a line and stood in it,
purchased 1 kilo of frozen shrimp,
and a three-liter jar of birch sap.
With a shower of sparks and a horrific screech of metal,
an elderly indigo Moskvitch
lost an entire rear wheel assembly,
and careened to a halt near the sidewalk.
The driver got out, shrugged,
loped across the lanes to fetch the wheel.
I was impressed by his male confidence.
Today, I am afraid of spooking Spring.
But I am glad I am that girl any longer--
the one missing essential components.
The photo above is not mine--it's a contemporary view of the monument to the cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin. But--you get the idea.
Here is my willow branch -- Верба--soon it will be Вербное Воскресенье--in the North we don't call it Palm Sunday--because we don't have palms. :)
Chag Pesach Sameach! Happy Passover!
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