My mother tongue is my first country

where white crows fly and black
sheep graze on idioms, where

proverbs hide like mushrooms
growing in a maze of Karelian

birches and pines, where needles sing
the songs of my babulya’s hands

her lullabies, her stitchwork freezing
snows in threads, I had them

framed for my mother’s American home,
for our mysterious Russian soul which likes

to wrap itself in floral shawls
and enigmas hidden in a worn

карта, которая меня находит,
Я – неграмотный компас,

a мой родной язык как
старый друг лучше новых двух

connection with an old friend is
better than making two new ones.