Storm, Momentary, Forever
Then summer said goodbye
by Boris Pasternak
to the station. Lifting its cap,
the thunder took souvenirs,
hundreds of shots on the fly.
The lilac went black. And that
instant, gathering whole armfuls
of lightning, the far clearing lit
the white station-master’s shack.
And when the whole roof ran
with a fierce torrent of malice,
and, like charcoal onto a sketch,
the rain crashed down on the fence,
consciousness started to flash,
here, it seems, flooding in play
even the corners of mind
where it’s always bright as day.