White fluffy cotton balls, Carrying the poplar’s seed, Gather in cracks and crevices Along the lake’s front.
The Island, they called it, in Sevan, But bound to the shore now, A hill, the churches on the top, Pop-up book cut-outs.
Across, above the lake’s low green shoreline, Snow in the mountains’ folds, Mountains’ cotton ball seeds.
Sevan’s Snow
Lake Sevan’s bluish water shines like burnished steel. Hills low as huts are dappled with shadows shaped like Rorschach tests.
Beyond, the mountains circle like a mother’s embrace, still holding snowy patches in their old skin’s folds and creases