AND
SLOW…
By Pavel Chichikov
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
And slow, the lightning waiting for
TILL
DUSK IS LATE
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
