Pascha
Those purple shadows over orange dust
That wafts so wistfully over my tired shoes
And wrinkled leaves like newborn babies’ feet.
The chapel’s dark and voices humming low.
The service ended ere I had come in.
The rays of sun too low to shine inside.
I watch the sun go out beyond the hill,
Those purple clouds to peaceful gray subside
And crows in sunset silence sing —
The snow is gone,
The birches’ branches still
And all of us despite it
All still are.
Ariella Katz is a Boston native living in Moscow, Russia. Her writing has appeared in Arion, The Gate, and East from Chicago. She is the co-editor of Does the Sun Have a Light Switch? A Literary Criminal Almanac, an anthology of stories and poetry by formerly incarcerated people in Moscow.
Amethyst Review 