Anichkov Bridge Anichkov Bridge
Snow dusts their flanks like sugar, those rearing horses frozen in timeat the four corners of this world.
A bright rainbow spiral of New Year's streamer lies imbedded in the greyice of the crusted pavement beneath my feet.
The sparkling shards of a green "champannskova" bottle crunchlike ice as I walk over the merry wreckage of midwinter joy.
Biting wind, spiced with snow, floats across my face like confetti, butdoes not chill my heart.
And the soft grey sky hides the sun and covers the city like a blanketof forgiveness for the missed chances of our summer.
The snow seems to whisper "it is a new year", new chance, andnothing has been lost.
But the past.
All the shrapnel wounds of winters past, gouged in the stones beneathour feet, when the horses were buried, are filled again with warm pink stone.
And I can hardly feel where the holes once were through the fingers ofmy winter gloves.