The maiden of Magadan

The wind rustles in the leaves,
crisp air whispers through the trees carrying
your name to me in delicate spider web dreams.
She becomes the blue sky peeking between angry grey clouds,
a taste of hope in an otherwise cold and bitter day.
Just a moment of her, a glimpse just at the edge of my vision;
there and then gone, so fragile,
she is like the powder on butterfly wings.
I know she is there and yet I am blinded by reality,
a lovely silken shroud.
Yet she becomes just a face in the crowd.
And suddenly, I am back in the forest,
Frantically turning in slow circles searching for a phantom.
And all that remains is a wisp of her perfume and my insanity
Within a cold Siberian forest.