Old Trees, by Sasha A. Palmer
Amid the autumn’s regal masterpiece,
Shielding the cyan river from the cold,
Dark ‘gainst the background of the sandy fleece,
Framing its banks, they stand—folks say—of old.
Ginger and golden strokes of changing leaves
Hover around their bark — the giants smile
Jovially, nodding at the quick time-thieves,
Knowing that all time is a short while.
Lean silhouettes project a quiet grace,
Zestful I would not call them, but content,
Xenia’s spirit fills their form, her face
Can be discerned among the hours spent.
Venture then into the awaiting realm,
Blend with the undergrowth, you weary soul,
Neath ancient trees take refuge, let them whelm,
Mend you and rule you, make you small and whole.
Sasha A. Palmer
Sasha A. Palmer is a Russian-born award-winning poet and translator, who currently lives in Baltimore, MD. Sasha’s poetry, translations and essays appeared in Writer’s Digest, Slovo/Word, Cardinal Points and elsewhere. Sasha has a thing for the word “amateur” and tries to follow the motto she has created: Live for the Love of it. Visit Sasha at www.sashaapalmer.com
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