Amid snow-blanketed roads, in the heights,
I searched, weary and worn, for a merchant of quiet.
I would buy, in reserve, to last until spring,
The soft whisper of birches where riverbanks sing.
And the surf by the dock, where a lone boat is tied,
I would ask for a sack full of waves' gentle tide.
A ray of dawn's light that the East sheds the hoop,
I would take, as my change, one measuring scoop.
"Don't forget to buy happiness," my mother would say,
"If you can find that store, somewhere along the way."
Merchant of quiet
© Copyright: Евгений Тушин, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №126031508636
Свидетельство о публикации №126031508636
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