First Snow Over Budapest
The train's engine crept northeast
to a stop in Budapest where
the tedium of snow settled
on the platform not far from
the exit door.
The land rolled out like a
white carpet void of patterns
or carved feet in the visible
distance; nestled was the sound
of grim silence.
The icy blur stirs my blood
and I lick the mist as the fog
swirls around me, heel to toe,
heel to toe, cross over and back
again, breathe.
Behind me a sea of slush is dancing
shyly as the sun makes its daily
comeback over the little village
homes. The sheets of air are warm,
and I slip away.
