ahkmatova

at the end of a forested walk

anna came to the space between the hedges

among the wooded paths of mourning,

to rest forever

beneath the pines.

a place salted by tears for her,

and laid out through seasons

anna rests as autumn sleeping,

always dreaming, beholding.

while above in endless passing,

long angled lines,

flying to warmer climes

by the ten thousands,

great birds on the wing flee

the frozen months coming.

we come

to spend with her,

our flesh that is her words.

the words that were her blood.

sometimes to burn as fuel

to warm ourselves,

and other times to rest beside

as she rest now.

and the seasons turn for us,

and one hundred thousand more fly,

and the country becomes as silent

as anna's hands

transparent in the blue moon lighted night,

beneath a gleaming white crucifix,