Читать книгу An Indiana Christmas - Bryan Furuness - Страница 14

WINTER SCENE, PAST MIDNIGHT

Matthew Brennan

Past midnight, long after lovemaking,

The light patter of snow,

Like the voice of a dead child or parent,

Taps at the panes and abruptly wakes you.

You go to the window that opens

To the park of oaks and, beyond,

To the art museum’s portico—

Through frost you see no moon, just clouds

Arched low like a blown-glass bowl.

You lift the window, lean into the cold,

And try to remember what you were dreaming

When, moments ago, you shuddered and woke,

Drawn for some reason into this scene.

But it’s like trying to recall the instant

Your life was conceived. All you can see

Is snow falling on the still, white park,

Falling on the sculpted bronze flesh

Of some forgotten city father

Until even this solitary shape

Is nothing but white.