The Road From Vysočany

I.
It was the kind of sun you can stare into
there aren’t many, especially where I am from

The color too deep to cause a glare
a blood orange so soft, you could swear
it would have no taste, definitely no bite

The sun hung in the sky for a few moments
above the spruce and tuje

Then slipped away as, quietly as it emerged
to light our early Friday evening

I was riding home on my bike- handlebars rusted
the purple paint chipping from the frame

And there was a smell emerging from the cold earth
as if the seasons were changing, subtle

Like the perfume a woman dabs behind
her knees, lower back, or between her breasts

Intentional, so you only smell it when she’s standing
before you, removing a heavy sweater, suddenly
her pale skin her only adornment

And as you follow the invitation to lean
towards her face
you can smell Spring
sweet and clean resting on the cool air
between you two

II.
The road home was not even a dusty pink, something like a speck
of rouge flicked on the horizon- it’s a flat and winding road
past white plastered houses and sinking roofs with coal smoking chimneys

There are two small ponds, side, by side, the top layers so frozen
that small boulders silently skid across the surface
I know because I hurled a couple to see what would happen
clunky rocks and branches sliding across the ice, suddenly graceful

The trees bend like horses to drink
some of the low birches brush the ice in the breeze
and this is my company, I can tell you the solitude of an open field
is louder than any city street I have ever stood