It's snowing‭;
I can see it‭
through‭
the ward window,‭

drifting slow‭
and filling‭
the branches‭
of the trees,

and out there‭
in the fields about.‭
It looks surreal,‭
like it is being painted‭

as I watch.‭
Glad we're in here,‭
not out there in it,‭
Yiska says,‭

moving next to me‭
at the window.‭  
I can smell her perfume‭
or is it soap‭?

It has a kind‭
of fascination,‭
I say,‭
trying to imagine soldiers‭

on the Russian Front‭
knee deep‭
in to snow,‭
fingers freezing‭

to rifles,‭
feet so cold‭
they freeze off.‭
She says nothing‭;

looks at the fall of snow.‭
You have imagination,‭
I’ll give you that,‭
she says after a few minutes.‭

Some days I want‭
to just lie there‭
and become numb‭
in snow.‭

I read some place‭
soldiers froze‭
where they stood‭
like statues,‭

dead and white,‭
I add,‭ ‬looking at her‭
beside me,‭ ‬her hair‭
unbrushed,‭ ‬her pale‭

blue nightgown‭
hanging loose,‭
no belts or ties‭
allowed‭( ‬suicides‭

always possible‭)‬,‭
her eyes staring‭
outward.‭
If I could get out‭

of this locked ward,‭
I’d be out there,‭
looking for a place‭
to just lie,‭ ‬and go‭

to sleep,‭ ‬she says.‭
I imagine us both‭
laying there out‭
in the falling snow,‭

cold,‭ ‬freezing‭
waiting to go.