Читать книгу Spells - Annie Finch - Страница 15

FROST’S GRAVE

I think of your quiet grave now and again

When innocence has rolled me out of sleep

Close to my husband’s side, to lean again

Against his breathing human side, to keep

Myself breathed in his liquid human breath.

I think of your nurturing grave so often. Death

Has made you a place I like to imagine going:

Opening the gate to your grave, entering in,

Reaping your silence where a small tree, growing

Generous in the forgiveness of your sin,

Leans over your stone, the grass, your bones, the grass,

The grass. The grass. I like to imagine frost there, hung

Like frost on a beach in November, when the sun

Rises on winter, just as it rose on spring,

On the humid decision to grow, past everything.