Читать книгу My Barefoot Rank - David Craig - Страница 7

that reaches up into the air—

a daughter’s, a great grace

that makes its turn above the soil:

just a hand, no rings, no polished nails.

The accompanying voice is quiet,

like the trees.

What Jesus offers is out of time.

If we were saints, none of this would be new.

It would all be kindling: yesterday.

Today would be a canvas—even

the alphabet. You might go anywhere,

take a left and never be heard from again.

Not that the people in that place

would care. There, trellised flowers

find the ground, fresh green.

The world is a sandbox.

Everyone puts out a folding chair

just to watch the sun set. A paintbrush

could make the rounds for years

without ever finding a table.

The world is a large eye—

its blinking moves you to the margins.

This is where you’ve always lived.

A young woman could live there, too.