Leo Yankevich
THE BURDEN
A bird flew by, a sparrow or a crow.
I'm not sure which, since light obstructed me.
I hung and marked the sky, which seemed so low,
much lower I thought—than it ought to be.
I realized then that something was awry.
Perhaps I was already gone, perhaps
I had descended, fallen to the wry
and winding depths of hell, where the mind traps
itself in snares of pride—for lack of hope.
But no—no demons kissed my brow, no ghosts
or apparitions dangled from my rope,
only you, blesséd one, you, Lord of Hosts.
GIFTS
I mark the clouds that float the inner skies
and birds pass overhead, magpies and swifts.
Around my thoughts a cosmos lives and dies,
and I with it, and all that's left are gifts.
MOUNTAIN MEDITATION
A hundred years from now I won't be here
amid these trees aglow with morning light.
It is enough for me that they'll be here,
their leaves a nameless colour at this height.
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