I will never again – I’m afraid it’s impossible -
pick cepes in the forest in the sputtering rain,
northwest of Moscow. The field is impassable.
The grass is too tall. Only snakes have remained.
The well that my grandpa dug up across
the road from his slanting house is merely
a memory now and doomed to be lost.
And that is enough to cherish it dearly.
Grandma Katya and I won’t get to play cards
on the old tattered sofa. The six won’t ensnare
the sly queen of clubs. I won't visit these parts.
The ones that I've loved all along aren’t there.
They’re long gone. There was smoke but no fire.
It vanished - the childhood pulled by the root.
The parachute soldier, the bike, and the wire
used to make bracelets. It vanished for good.