by Ljubomir Simovic
Didn’t I say last night it will snow?
What else would there be but snow?
I no longer wait for the rustle of wings,
or some dove to make my heart leap
and shine its light on me.
Snow has hatched in every den and lair
putting out every fire.
The snow: our key and lock.
I woke in my bed as if in another world,
as if in a drift of snow.
The three hills were all white.
I put on my cold boots, made a fire,
cut three rashers of bacon into the skillet
by the window where’s starting to snow again.
The bacon sizzles. I break an egg.
In the room the shadows of jackdaws fly to and fro
I rejoice because of the egg.
Last night I took a walk in the snow. The empty streets of my subdivision were quiet and lit with Christmas lights. All is calm all is bright, I sang in my head. Like Simovic I felt “as if in another world.” At least six inches had already collected, and snow was still coming down in blusters when I reached my friend’s house to leave this poem on her side porch. I hoped she’d wake up today to find it, although I don’t have a lot of confidence in the stickiness of scotch tape under snowy conditions.
This poem captures so well the surprise of waking up to snow. How is it that Eastern Europeans can speak so openly from the heart without sounding mawkish and overly-sentimental? I love that quality in poetry.
I’m sure it’s an even better poem in the original Serbian.
Ljubomir Simovic was born in Serbia in 1935. He seems to be a writer-of-all-trades, a poet, a playwright, a television writer and short story writer. That’s as much as I can find out about him because all the info I found wasn’t written in English.