Seeing Pasternak in February

February.  Take ink and weep,
write February as you're sobbing . . .

. . . while black Spring burns deep
through the slush and throbbing. ("February. Take Ink and Weep")

Rouse your soul!  Make the day, foaming.
It's noon in the world.  Where are your eyes?
See there, thoughts in the whiteness seething,
fir cones, woodpeckers, cloud, heat, pines.  ("Sparrow Hills")

And it's suddenly written again
here in first snow is the spider's
cursive script, runners of sleighs,
where ice on the page embroiders. ("Winter Nears")

Snow all through February,
and time again
the candle burned on the table,
the candle burned.  ("Winter Night")

Snow is falling: snow is falling,
not snowflakes stealing down,
Sky parachutes to earth instead,
in his worn dressing gown.  ("Snow is Falling")

How many sticky buds, candle ends
sprout from the branches! Steaming . . . ("Spring")

That's why in early spring
we meet, my friends and I,
and our evenings are -- farewell documents,
our gatherings are -- testaments,
so the secret stream of suffering
may warm the cold of life.  ("The Earth")

Thank you, Boris Pasternak, for the beautiful poetry that lets me see . . . before writing.