Something happened in Russia. br He came back white, with blood veins webbing his brow. br Something happened to him in Russia br and I have him now. br br Now once again I must tend him, br a gardener coaxing the roots to bear br Spring shoots that force their way up through the wintry earth br into the birth of air. br br Air is the breath of promise I must fan br out of a stagnant sky and bring alive; br prayer from my lips must then impel from static clouds br rain to pour down like bees swarming from their hive, br br hives holding hope to fertilize the opening buds br nourishing soul and body. I must be br the god who has fallen silent, promise broken. br Now it’s all up to me, br br me in my solitary domain since he flew away to Russia br where a blood moon and mesmerizing night br danced him towards the sound of voices buzzing br and the end of an endless return flight br br flight back to me as if I can once more carry br the gardening tools of time and trade br while my own heart is frozen, cracked by the flight to Russia, br and our oblivious god in his baking desert br sleeps off his workday under a sole gourd’s shade. br br LRH br 3.10.