by Pavel Chichikov
A horde of brown leaves, tan leaves, gold leaves
Flowing in migration
From the caves of autumn
Now the blur of six months dusk
And now they twitter, scrape and whine
Rush to the water's edge
In a horde, a beast, a living body
Made of dead leaves
Who are they – rushing to the water
Who are they – do they have names
Do leaves have names?
No, as all the dead who ever lived
And ever will
Just so the dead are named
Then who will know them, tell,
Who will know?
Now they lift themselves and fly –
Or are they lifted – who can tell,
They seem to be alive –
Let them be at peace, for One who knows them
Will name them on a day
And lift them too –
All prayer is that,
For that we pray
(Click here to follow Pavel's ongoing epic poem “The Shoulder of the Sun.” You may also visit Pavel's website at Grey Owl Press.)
