Madame Ranevskaya’s Reverie  
poem 2 of a Chekhovian suite

I dance beneath boughs heavy with spring,  
wine-warm laughter on my tongue.  
The air tastes of childhood and lost letters—  
murmurs of father, of home.  

Yet every footstep echoes farewell;  
hope, a threadbare gown I once wore.  
I sip nostalgia like champagne—  
sweet, effervescent, and gone too fast.  




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