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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=447888" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Cossacks</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=447888" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">For Jews, the Cossacks are always coming.<br>Therefore I think the sun spot on my arm<br>is melanoma. Therefore I celebrate<br>New Year's Eve by counting<br>my annual dead.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=447888" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">My mother, when she was dying,<br>spoke to her visitors of books<br>and travel, displaying serenity<br>as a form of manners, though <br>I could tell the difference.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=447888" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">But when I watched you planning<br>for a life you knew<br>you'd never have, I couldn't explain<br>your genuine smile in the face<br>of disaster. Was it denial</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=447888" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">laced with acceptance? Or was it<br>generations of being English--<br>Brontë's Lucy in Villette<br>living as if no fire raged<br>beneath her dun-colored dress.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=447888" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">I want to live the way you did,<br>preparing for next year's famine with wine<br>and music as if it were a ten-course banquet.<br>But listen: those are hoofbeats<br>on the frosty autumn air.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Linda+Pastan">Linda Pastan</a></strong></div>