And the forest will echo with laughter.

I waited so long for love and suddenly, here it is standing in the garden, hands full of heirlooms hot from the sun.

Soon we’ll make a supper of them. Salted slabs between slices of bread. Your beard silvers. My hips ripen. The mail piles up.

Phone calls go unanswered. Forgive us. Our mouths are full of tomatoes. We are so busy being small and hungry and alive.

by Marina Tsvetaeva tr. Ilya Kaminsky and Jean Valentine

Where does such tenderness come from? These aren’t the first curls I’ve wound around my finger — I’ve kissed lips darker than yours.

The sky is washed and dark (Where does such tenderness come from?) Other eyes have known and shifted away from my eyes.

But I’ve never heard words like this in the night (Where does such tenderness come from?) with my head on your chest, rest.