Akhmatova In this room you waited for word of where Your husband and son were Wearing one of the shawls you wear In the photographs that hang on the wall Of this room where you were afraid You would hear one of them Had been hung after hearing No response from Stalin To your plea to spare them The snow sifting down Through the bare trees of the garden Whose winter valor gave you courage When you heard the apple-crunch of boots Under your window but before You could see who it was Whoever it was was at the door As they took the ponderous stairs you hid The poems that weren’t already hidden The most dangerous one in the fire But at the knock on the door faint And almost apologetic you knew It was a friend come to hear you Recite the burning one
Lovely, concrete images in the progression I love the last line.
Wonderful. So very good. I feel the slow steps of her continuous worry. The permanence of loss.