Joseph Brodsky

It's a snowy morning here in Middleburgh, NY as we consider a poem by Russian/American poet and essayist Joseph Brodsky (May 24, 1940 – January 28, 1996).

Tornfallet

There is a meadow in Sweden
where I lie smitten,
eyes stained with clouds'
white ins and outs

And about that meadow
roams my widow
plaiting a clover wreath
for her lover.

I took her in marriage
in a granite parish.
The snow lent her whiteness,
a pine was a witness.

She'd swim in the oval
lake whose opal
mirror, framed by bracken,
felt happy, broken.

And at night the stubborn
sun of her auburn
hair shone from my pillow
at post and pillar.

Now in the distance
I hear her descant.
She sings "Blue Swallow,"
but I can't follow.

The evening shadow
robs the meadow
of width and color.
It's getting colder.

As I lie dying
here, I'm eyeing
stars. Here's Venus;
no one between us.
--Joseph Brodsky