Perihelion: An Online Journal of Poetry and Mayhem
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William Rush


               I wait for her whom no one can command
                             Anna Akhmatova

                                    It’s one thing to call her up,
                                    another for her to answer.
                                    Like sudden Spring, she’s fickle,  
                                    makes her own rules.
                                    Can I be sure when she goes
                                    if she’ll ever come back?
                                    There’s that look of hers implying:
                                    Plenty more fish in the sea.

                                    But when hope fades, here
                                    she comes again, unapologetic, 
                                    crowned with flowers, bearing a gift
                                    only she could choose.