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Wednesday, April 20, 2022


by Sarah Russell


The snow came silent, pure,
a quilt of feathered white
to cover wreckage of the war.

Few saw the snow’s allure—
just ordinary men who stayed to fight.
The snow came silent, pure.

This ragtag, patriot corps
were confident they’d stall Goliath’s might
despite the wreckage of this war.

Russian bodies dead, left unsecured.
Tanks smoldering, explosions in the night.
The snow came silent, pure.

Families, hid in cellars, reassured,
emerged again with trembling to the light
and saw the wreckage of the war.

Old Praskovia clutched her apron. She’d endured 
two wars, was broken by the sight.
The snow came silent, pure
to cover wreckage of the war.

Sarah Russell’s poetry and fiction have been published in Kentucky Review, Misfit Magazine, Rusty Truck, Third Wednesday, and many other journals and anthologies. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee. She has two poetry collections published by Kelsay Books, I lost summer somewhere and Today and Other Seasons.