Anna Rasshivkina

I think of now, how your body has become a comfortable haven

I was thinking today about the first times we met. About when I first saw you, a long-legged man wearing light summer pants and a cream cotton shirt with a Mandarin collar and a cowboy hat with a shock of black hair sticking…

Time itself, like the land, was unbanded

We mark down dashes in a ring and call it time, and when it doesn’t fit our schedules we fast-forward or rewind. Sometimes I catch myself wondering which time is the real one, and then I remember the question is flawed — the writing does not belong on the…

Time slips from grasping fingers and skirts the shadows, smirking

I am thinking about Time. Or rather, I am feeling her — how capricious she is, how she slips from grasping fingers and skirts the shadows, smirking. She is magic and she is mischief: she gives the greatest gifts and…

Time descends like a wave from the mountains

Oh, do not tell me that this is the last hike of the season; I do not wish to hear it. I am only human, I want to make my own seasons. I want to stand in opposition to the year’s nightfall, I want to defy time. I will drag my cold bones out into that…

Tell me about the susurrant trees

If you can listen to the susurrant trees, they will tell you of themselves. Their speech is uncomplicated by words, as existence is uncomplicated by ideas. This is Truth.

The Rockies our heart, sending its lifeblood south

The forest is a dream world, harboring fairies

​Rode back to NYC today along those rural highways, the scenery a spread of simple but striking gifts. The shaded forests of Pennsylvania, carpeted in lush and shaggy ferns and draped in vines — the greens unreal after the rain, the bark so dark…

The storm hung above the city, stalled in windless skies

​I awoke at 5:30 this morning, curled fully-clothed upon the bed. The world murmured with rain outside my window, thunder tumbled slowly in. It drew me out into the cradle of a still, warm night. The storm hung above the city…