My ice sheets are melting

***
My ice sheets are melting,
once strong,
now fragile
like cotton,
when the open-water vessels –
your mountain blue eyes –
do navigate my Volga.
Diving up here is risky,
the river is broad and deep,
making it fearful to explore,
the diving season is short—
a few full moons
if you’re lucky,
a few gestures
if you are not.
My ice sheets are melting
under the firestorm
of your pre-alpine look
that drifts sideways,
but always returns
to the epicentre
of my Russian north –
your maritime wave
jumps and covers all of my snow –
we sit down,
in front of each other,
we enjoy one autumn morning
in Skype,
I’m melting down,
inevitably,
in your Benàco smile.