Tatiana Tatarchevskiy
No one would know that you stopped in your track short.
A beautiful ruin among tree trunks, you rest.
Pinecones assemble a pattern, seabound, see-through.
Like angels, on bramble and thorn,
goats here feast.
You drink well water, dry-mouthed, angered.
This road made of granite is not what they call defeat.
It is something other. Rather. Else. Like a nest
that one day may bring an egg. Or a tree
hollow preserving a secret crown of acorns.
The wind quietens down this side of the hill.
Above the horizon rain swells, a spider web
tremors. Harder, you step,
mouth agape; moss-covered
under your boot soft needles sink.
Half-full or half-emptied,
you made it half-way.
What do we lose when we lose a path?
What do we find instead?
Tatiana Tatarchevskiy
Tatiana is a native of Russia, immigrant for the last twenty years in the US, Ireland, and UK, and mother of three. She writes poetry and short stories about women, parenting, exile, and the haunting traumas of Soviet society. Her poems appeared in Night Heron Barks, Abridged, and Honest Ulsterman. She cannot wait for the day when Ukraine wins the war, its people return home, and every Russian war criminal is prosecuted.