I count the snowflakes as I count your days.
The hollows hold evaporated stars.
Each one as unique as a poem thought,
Bears witness to winter's eternity.
The landscape is the color of old wood.
Vividness would disturb its elegance.
Within its depth I carve your Slavic face
And feel my fingers warmed by memory.
Previously published: Skylark, Purdue University Calumet