Boris Shcherbakov
"Leaves Are Falling. Streets of Vesennaya," 1973

Autumn. A fairy-tale hall laid bare.
Clearings gaze into lakes below.

Like an art exhibition—
room after room: elms, ashes, aspens
in unprecedented gold.

Lindens in golden hoops,
like a bride’s crown.
The birch’s face beneath
a sheer, soft veil floating down.

Earth buried in leaves—
ditches, hollows, pits.
Maples by outbuildings
like gilded frames.

Where September trees
at dawn stand in rows,
sunset leaves on bark
an amber glow.

Where no step in a ravine
goes unnoticed—
each step stirs
the wooden leaf.

Where alleys echo
from steep descents,
and cherry-red dawn
congeals into dark.

Autumn. An ancient corner
of old books, clothes, arms—
frost flips through
the catalog of treasures.

Boris Pasternak. Golden Autumn

Bright Bits #Poetry #Autumn #Art