(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.)
by Pavel Chichikov
The creature on the table rings
My master lifts its leg and sings
But nothing there sings back at him
Until he stops, puts down its limb
And even then it may not choir
Until a span of time transpires
Otherwise it does not stir
Or even mew and scratch and purr
No woodchuck is it, meadow mouse
Those are wild, this lives in house
No bird is it, although it whistles
As do the heated kitchen kettles
No one takes it for a stroll
It has no flesh to run, or roll
Yet he cares for it enough
To grumble at it, sniff and laugh
So said we when Christ among
Us little humans sang a song
To some mysterious thing in air
Above His head and called it prayer
Or when He left an empty tomb
About the countryside to roam
And broil a perch upon a beach
And rise to where no one can reach