Bergen, summer morning (for Olga)

A wind blows into Norway
from the old keening sea,
and those who are native
stare into it, pausing...
as if a large bold Valkyrie
had brought this airy rush.

This perfect sea breeze
moves along the boulevards
and searches for a woman
eastern gods remember.

They called forth this zephyr,
this long Scythian arrow,
to find her and pierce her,
to bring her one moment.

And now in this morning,
she locks her front door,
then turns to the city,
to the new day's design.

She walks with a glimmer
inside two dark irises,
like two candled ikons,
faithful and burning.
And faint on her cheeks,
nostalgia is sleeping.


That certain strange wind,
moving through Bergen,
now brushes those cheeks
until they are turning.

And the air moves in rhythm
to a bittersweet ballad,
to vibrations of unheard
balalaika strings.

That certain strange wind,
called forth by ancients,
called forth by Russia,
now coaxes her eyes...

to turn toward memories,
to turn toward fairy tales,
to turn toward beauties
in the distance of dreams.

She pauses and smiles
and sighs and is grateful
for this one windy moment
of silent old music.