Читать книгу Mr. Burns and Other Plays - Anne Washburn - Страница 33

THE SMALL

The small birds swirl around

the high cicadas chirr

a towhee pecks the ground

I look at the first star

My heart held to its joy

This whole September day

The moon goes to the full

the moon goes slowly down

The wood becomes a wall

Far things draw closer in

the wind moves through the grass

then all is as it was

What rustles in the fern?

I feel my flesh divide

things lost in sleep return

as if out of my side

on feet that make no sound

over the sodden ground

The small shapes drowse—I live

to woo the fearful small

What moves in grass I love—

the dead will not lie still

And things throw light on things

and all the stones have wings.

—Theodore Roethke