Frost and sun, as needed.
But the western sky’s a bit overwrought.
At 16:00 a blood-red sun rolls
into the dark wood, like a coin into the lining.
Light for another hour,
so we can spend it zealously,
imaginatively, purposefully.
… We observed the four-century-old elm-tree,
summers, they say, not approachable.
The clunky black grouse we scared off
with a noise like a damp sheet flapping
it broke the ice crust, then soared,
only to fall back again beyond the woods.
Heavy skis, carved by hand,
make a vague track, powdery like fine sand.
A size twelve felt boot with straps,
deceptively got stuck in a crater, a pit.
A slender leg, ankle, calf twirled around,
searching, finding no support.
Freezing in the air, as if detached,
simply as such, chilled, shoeless.
They said: put on some socks, they said,
suggested I get some warm ones, suggested.
You’ll die, you’ll get ill—your own fault …
Translated by Daniel Weissbort