The Rainbow, Hormandie by Robert Henri

Sky at Sunset by Eugene Boudin

Stitch

I stitch my love on time. Imaginings. The brightness of grass again is stitched near the top. Warmth enough to float in the river stitched yellow. The flat river rocks heating my feet up through my skull stitched red. Along the borders. Everything happens along the borders you say. Blue stitching for the summer sky. Glorious blue. Almost unreal. You ask if I am making a pillow. Yes. A pillow, dear Petrov. Soft. For you to rest your neck in battle. When the guns have quieted and you so long for respite. My breast and your head pressed together. The air coming out of you. Short warm bursts on my skin. Alive. You are still alive. Each night you are here your weight upon me. Crushing the straw mattress. Sighs. How I long to be out dancing when there is only music. No guns. No screams from the almost dead. Not that I am able to hear the almost dead. Only in sleep. Accompanying nightmares. Each dream stitched black. The owls and hawk. Other frightful sounds. Animals down the chimney. Winter lightning once struck the roof. You were away at battle. I thought it would take down the house.

Cave

Trust I have little to spare. I have my house about to fall down. The harsh Russian winters. Once a very fine house. Before the wars. When most ran or were eliminated. A matter of luck. And my father. Away with a baby home in a cradle. Went simply unnoticed. Was that not luck. Depending. My father’s eyes died after. Is that considered luck. A tumble down house better than no house. Perhaps it’s best to dwell in a cave. Nothing to take when the time comes. I have what I have. My horse who lives and breathes alongside me. Through the days and nights when the walls change from land to sea. Night and its own confusions. Tented star-studded black velvet. Much like your regiment sets up camp. The mountain shimmers purple, dear Petrov. Do you notice. Here rogues roam for money and drink. Keep the doors bolted, you say. These are strange and difficult times. You look content in your chair. Worn. Blue velvet I cover each time you leave. A cloth of cherries trailing green stems. Spring-like. Giving me some hope. The fever the moment the door slams shut behind you. I rush up the stairs to look out the attic spaces. Watching you stomp down the road. To meet your regiment somewhere past the curve. The road bends then lost to shadows.