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JANE SATTERFIELD
Dedication
The whole town stands
covered in ice.
The trees, the walls, the snow
are as though under glass.
As I stepped down into the cellar, the lantern
started to smoke.
Everything went dark before my eyes.
It's not pain I fear, nor being alone—
but these phantasms—
cool touch of hands, and after, words of consolation.
Among flower kiosks last summer,
an ancient sound chimed from distant bells.
A sudden premonition: my ruined home.
The flowers of a meeting I missed
lie trembling on my breast,
a fire neither fear nor oblivion can touch.
Insomnia, the lost lilac, made me think of you—
the blue carriages of the metro, buried under snow,
stuck a long time between stations. 
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