On the synthetic web
of tiny fibers on my gloves,
snowflakes begin to show,
like tiny snowballs.
I first saw their kind
long ago,
when it still made sense
to measure my hand
up against a hand of a grown-up.
I still used all my fingers
to hold on to
my granddad's index.
I still had my granddad,
his scent and voice
in the autumn town.
Now there's no snow,
not even in winter.
Snowballs came in spite of it,
as if to say
that they have to lay low
only for a little bit,
that the whole of the autumn town
is right where I left it,
where it always rests,
with everything it always was.
Na mreži dlačica
sintetičkih crnih rukavica
se skupljaju pahulje
sabijene u grudve.
Takve sam davno
prvi put videla
onda kada je
još uvek imalo smisla
meriti malenu šaku
uza šake odraslih.
Još uvek sam svim svojim prstima
obavijala jedan dedin.
Još uvek je bio tu deda
sa svojim mirisom i glasom
u jesenjem gradu.
Sada snega nema ni zimi.
Grudvice su ipak došle,
kao da mi kažu
da samo na kratko
moraju da se pritaje,
da je sav jesenji grad
tu gde je i bio,
gde jeste,
sa svime što je oduvek imao.