Ignoring my parent’s
warnings to wear
a scarf, I skip to my
friend’s stall, grinning
at sleighs and sun
caricatures. The contralto
voices of grandmas permeate the
brisk air, and men strum
balalaikas, singing
about a snowball
tree, convincing
budding green leaves
to sway in harmony. With alliances
formed, children pile
dirt and the remnants of winter
into protection from
incoming snow. Parents
garbed in traditional
flowered scarfs and burly
coats chuckle at their
loved ones’ joy, while stands with
potatoes and borsht beckon
the crowd to have a
taste. Dancers balance
red cone shaped headpieces
embroidered with silver
thread on their heads while
rejoicing in the music of
new beginnings. Future
harvests put hearts at
rest, fear of shortage,
over. Enemies are forgiven,
disputes temporarily
discounted. I run towards
the other kids, my purple snowsuit
wearing me down. Snatching
a blini from one of the stands,
sweet syrup seeps
down my finger, and I lick
a trail back to the edge of my
pancake, a treat for
today only. Amidst
the villagers and the
snow, I smile
at winter’s tagging
along spring.