By Pavel Chichikov
Forgive me walking on your roots –
You've hid those buried vertebrae
Thirteen decades and two years
Since Early's raiders passed close by
You were old enough a twig
To grow a pipe from someone's chest
And draw an earthly liquor up –
But never yet has oak confessed
Oak tree ask, you shall be given
Pardon green for your contrition –
But that was long ago, and then
I am too old and have forgotten
I sense a dreadful human pain
Much prefer the autumn rain
Regret and self-denying sorrow
Are not the gifts that I would borrow
Iron acorns twanged like harps
Bruised with bone my pericarps
And though they buried one like you
Iron acorns never grew
(Click here to follow Pavel's ongoing epic poem “The Shoulder of the Sun.” You may visit Pavel's website at http://www.greyowlpress.com.)
