Silver Birch (1927)

 

She stands alone,

on her plinth–lost in a dream,

gazing over the steppe,

through the forest, into the wilderness

and how frail she looks,

with those supple limbs,

her burnished skin so delicate

along jut of collar bone,

hands lost in shivering sleeves,

delicate foliage barely covering

her orphan frame,

assailed on all sides

by the harsh Siberian winds,

feet and ankles

stubbornly rooted in a romantic past,

her hair reflecting the billows

of the racing clouds above.

She stands there,

for all to see,

defiant to the last,

before the grey wagons

of the politburo

roll in to take her down.

 

**

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Silver Birch (1927)

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