Musings on personal growth, books, motherhood, writing, and more. "Every hour is saved from that eternal silence, something more, a bringer of new things." – Tennyson
The following poem is a meditation on Leo Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, which I’m almost finished reading.
How could he go like that, not having tried
to make things right again? She rushed downstairs.
Vronsky leaned his head against the window,
hardly seeing the familiar landmarks
welcoming him home to his old mother.
If only he could ask her—someone—why
his Anna, whom he loved, would not believe
that he was true, as in love as ever.
What else must he do—lose—to convince her?
Anna, from her carriage, saw each person
on the street, told each silently that life
was the enemy, that love was a lie.
She could not see that love takes courage, trust—
that fear can crush love, like death crushes life.