Дмитрий Алёхин – 400 Poems (страница 4)

The house is quiet, not a sound,

The peace is deep and all around.

I make a tea, I toast some bread,

I let the good thoughts fill my head.

The week will come with all its load,

But Sunday morning is my road.

The Last Cookie

There is one cookie on the plate,

Should I eat it now or wait?

I look at it, it looks at me,

A little friend, so sweet, so wee.

I take a bite, it melts away,

The perfect end to my long day.

No guilt, no shame, just pure delight,

The last cookie feels so right.

Shadows

The sun is low, the shadows grow,

They stretch their legs and move so slow.

A giant hand upon the wall,

A dancing tree that's ten feet tall.

I wave my arms, the shadow waves,

It follows me, it never saves.

But that's okay, it's just a friend,

That stays with me until the end.

The Old Key

I found a key upon the ground,

So old, so small, so darkly browned.

What does it open? I will never know,

A box, a heart, a long ago.

I put it in my pocket deep,

A little secret I can keep.

Not every lock needs to be turned,

Not every lesson needs to be learned.

Planting a Seed

I push my finger in the dirt,

A tiny hole that does not hurt.

I drop the seed so small and brown,

Then gently press the soft earth down.

I give some water, give some light,

Then wait and trust with all my might.

The seed does not scream or shout,

It just grows up when time runs out.

The Bus Ride

The bus is full of different faces,

Going to different times and places.

A lady reads, a man just stares,

A child counts the passing squares.

I look outside at shops and trees,

And feel the motion, feel the breeze.

We do not speak, but still we share,

This moving room, this public prayer.

Mending Things

A hole in my sock, a tear in my shirt,

A little rip that does not hurt.

I take a needle, take a thread,

And fix the thing inside my bed.

It is not perfect, I can see,

But now it's part of part of me.

A scar, a line, a story too,

A thing that says: I cared for you.

The Empty Chair

There is a chair that no one sits in,

Since the one who loved it quit in.

But I still see them in my mind,

A cup of tea, a book, a kind.