I am reading Jane Kenyon’s translation of Akhmatova’s poetry. The first thing I open to after the essays:

The memory of sun weakens my heart,
grass turns yellow,
wind blows the early flakes of snow
lightly, lightly.

Already the narrow canals have stopped flowing:
water freezes.
Nothing will ever happen here-
not ever.

Against the empty sky the willow opens
a transparent fan.
Maybe it’s a good thing I’m not
your wife.

The memory of sun weakens my heart.
What’s this? Darkness?
It’s possible. And this may be the first night
of winter.

Ana is killing me. I realize this what I love about Kenyon’s work, what I love about Akhamtova’s work. It is the simple. It is what happens to us all.