Our trees are aspens, but people <br />mistake them for birches; <br />they think of us as characters <br />in a Russian novel, Kitty and Levin <br />living contentedly in the country. <br />Our friends from the city watch the birds <br />and rabbits feeding together <br />on top of the deep, white snow. <br />(We have Russian winters in Illinois, <br />but no sleighbells, possums instead of wolves, <br />no trusted servants to do our work.) <br />As in a Russian play, an old man <br />lives in our house, he is my father; <br />he lets go of life in such slow motion, <br />year after year, that the grief <br />is stuck inside me, a poisoned apple <br />that won't go up or down. <br />But like the three sisters, we rarely speak <br />of what keeps us awake at night; <br />like them, we complain about things <br />that don't really matter and talk <br />of our pleasures and of the future: <br />we tell each other the willows <br />are early this year, hazy with green.<br /><br />Lisel Mueller<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/another-version/
