Tourists at Peredelkino

An early moon casts light
over Pasternak's grave.
Slanted crosses become
a mirror to our linked elbows.
Believing in romance or ceremony,
we kneel before an unlit candle.

Snow cloaks us, washes the light.
Swirling bits singe our faces.
Not a game; rather, this is what
we're able to make from ritual.
Bodies press, shifting and parting
like broken clouds.

As each breath rushes to meet
the next, the very air
shimmers to life before us.
Out here, in this dark land,
even strangers kiss.
Left cheek first, then right,
finally press just-parted lips.

Though it ought not, speech
takes on an almost familiar stance,
forms a chorus of vowels
that blend into song. Meanwhile
gray has piled on gray; a border guard
to these suspended hours.

White-patched crows dapple
the sky, stirring memories.
We yearn for this, what cannot
be ours, only eventually will we
note how our boots have cast
trails among the tombstone's shadows.