by Pavel Chichikov
The meadow is a burning paradise
Consumed not by the sun yet burning twice,
Once by August sunlight turning gold
The seeding rye by dragonflies patrolled,
And once by growing since they still respire
A slower conflagration, golden wire
Holding up its seed heads to the sky,
Artifacts and yet they multiply
And if by fire these two senses burn
Two flames of joy above the altared soul,
As dragonflies above the meadow turn
So does the eye of innocence patrol
And to the gates of paradise returns
From which in shame of innocence it stole
(See Pavel's new book, Mysteries and Stations, here.)
