Russian Winter

I love the sound,
it is dry and Siberian.
Like cold black basalt,
in stark white snow.

Some neighborhoods,
lack a description,
like they need an amnesty,
you want to close your eyes,
and soak them in,
then tell no one.

I'm standing against a wall,
leaning on it,
moss growing every where,
and staring straight ahead.

Sometimes, out of the gray fog,
and the honest rain,
you look like a summer night,
naked and warm.