Sunday, June 17, 2012


By Pavel Chichikov

Little oak tree, sapling small
When first transplanted, thick and tall,
A challenged life you led at first,
Torrential rain, a microburst
That twisted you around your trunk
And made you lean as if dead drunk

Now a generous full shade,
A round of leaves and limbs displayed,
And yet a tiny acorn grown
Inside a sheath of leaves alone,
One green gall between two veins,
A single guest your sap sustains

Patience, child, you will grow more
And slow, the lightning waiting for 

For N. 
 By Pavel Chichikov

Though none of them draw near for days,
Leave fresh water for the guests,
Let them lap the ivory bowl,
They will come soon in summer dusk

They will come soon, that is my faith
Although the lawn is silent, waits,
The great return is what I pray
Though it may be till dusk is late

Now the rooftops lose their light
And all the streets stretch out in sleep,
But then we wait until they come,
To see them drink, and meet, and leap