Oh but he wanted a wife,
Shileyko did—
a wife, not a poet,
so he burnt Anna’s poems
            in the samovar.

And I yelled at you
when all you did
was spill some tea
(quite accidentally) over my poems.

Now outside in the snow
I’m looking for the tallest pine tree,
the one whose sly wisdom I need.
Now outside in the snow
I’m thinking of Anna. Over there
it’s always dark. The sky
if not grey, is black. 
The snow thigh high
slowly grows waist deep.
But the tall woman, her dark shawl
pulled taut, walks on anyway.
The tall woman walks alone,
deeper into the woods
among a crowd of trees
she finds her place
and looks at the moon
as if it were her little sister
finally come home.