When I go outside, and it's 46 degrees- I think I'm in hell; and nature agrees with me.
Yellowed dull grass, lifeless shrubs, and the landscapes all flat and motionless.
Falling red leaves in February. That's neither here nor there.
I wasn't made for such climates...
Mine is cold winters and cool summers. White landscapes, harshest in beauty.
Where plus 7 feels warm enough to think about forgoing the coat,
And people forget to add minus in front of the number-they are understood either way.
Of hot, passionate hearts and cold, cold logic.
People see summer as flimsy, see-through dresses,
Short bright mini-skirts and walks on the beech.
Now when I think of summer I see is death,
Heat rising from the ground, hot air refusing to fill lungs.
Mirages, and wet pavement, hot drops drying up on the eyes.
Yellowed landscape and brown people, wrinkles and less and less water.
Yellow is the colour of wall in Russian asylums,
Van Gogh painted his house yellow also.
Sunflowers, were they about death too?
The heat is unbearable and sleep elusive.
In better times, in childhood, I remember the summers worth living.
Cold lakes, early morning, fishing and scrapes.
Wars, village on village, bows -made with string - wooden swords, plant spears,
A play untheath the apple tree.
Ground cold and stomped till concrete hardness.
No communication, no phone lines. A white dog; Belka.
Those summer weren't hot. They were filled with rain-storm and
keeping a fire going inside the house, because it was damp and cold.
A hail, holes in the umbrella, hail size of white fists.
I feel nature keenly, and can't sleep when hot, wake up when cold.
Life is monotonous and yet it all changes.