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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