The winter of Marya Morevna

A woman stands on a new white stone
arms full of pale anemones
not hiding her disappointment.

Are you sated now
my yew lover, my sneaker-of-eggs,
brazen as a fat weasel in daylight?
All quiet, leashed, unriddled—
I have not picked at one intestine.

Your mead girl, honey-suckled and doldrum fair
wheat warm and shy as a sparrow’s wing.
Golden to bide the wintertide: and I
did not begrudge you once.

In the violet of our whetstone years,
I curved fast and scarlet under your hands
full in baleful winter when we wooed.
we were old rotten hearts, that beat sideways in the dark
and drank the whip of candle-wine.

Cream and cambric close she flew,
tumbling blankly on a bold black love.
Come back to bed, brave flame of mine:
to softer sheets than these. 

A woman kneels on a gravestone.
The sky bursts concave and aching
and cannot hide her disappointment.