This is more of a late-winter poem, but it’s been stuck in my head for days now, so I’m sharing it here. “Salt on an axe-blade”? Awesome.
Enjoy your next hot shower.
I was washing outside in the darkness,
the sky burning with rough stars,
and the starlight, salt on an axe-blade.
The cold overflows the barrel.
The gate’s locked,
the land’s grim as its conscience.
I don’t think they’ll find the new weaving,
finer than truth, anywhere.
Star-salt is melting in the barrel,
icy water is turning blacker,
death’s growing purer, misfortune saltier,
the earth’s moving nearer to truth and to dread.
– Osip Mandelstam (translated from the Russian by Brown and Merwin)