Leaves are peeling from the trees like gilt shavings. Peaches of mouldering Venetian velvet drop from the branch.
;after those months of torpor and light-headed stasis, our lives have weight again.
Now in the cold museum of our mornings the air preserves our words like frosted violets.

In the city our eyes are caught once more by remnants of old-fangled
finery: a curving lily in a stained glass door.
a stone angel pointing heavenward in the cemetery
In this weak, amber light, the world feels
as gentle and distant as a sepia photograph.
Yet in the wind there is that chilling hint of diamantine winters on the horizon.Now we ache like a Chopin sonata for the lacerating beauty of what we must leave behind.
It's the last days of the Romanovs all over again.