Poem a Day

Memories of the sun fade as my heart grows numb—
The grass is yellower, too.
The wind toys with what snowflakes have already come—
So few, so few.

In narrow canals, there’s already nothing that flows—
Water stands still.
Nothing ever happens here, nothing grows—
It never will!

Against the sky, the willow lifts its skeletal life.
Its see-through shawl.
Maybe it’s better that I’m not your wife,
After all.

Memories of the sun fade as my heart grows numb.
What’s this? Darkness in town?
Maybe! And during the night, winter may come—
And settle down.

-Anne Akhmatova