Bullfinch

Yesterday there was slush,
the wind bent the rakites,
and the snow was mowing, as if,
and stuck to the skis very much.

And the air was raw and spicy,
pine resin buttermilk.
There was a very rare sun ray,
that made his way among the clouds.

But, here the blizzards arrived,
from the rugged northern meadows.
Numb under their breath
bushes of frozen shores.

Frost smelled in the air
snowball pleasantly cramped.
Bullfinch-handsome, from far,
I flew to us for a visit.