Читать книгу Light in Light - Deborah Gerrish - Страница 7

the haze lifted early. In the garden, I planted herbs.

Bluebirds watched. Dew rolled off their feet

like beads of Muscadet.

The woodpecker in search of a mate,

drummed the sycamore tree and I peered

into the flicker’s tree cavity,

the small boulevard of insects. Tiny fly-bugs random

against the squint of the sun—

grubs, beetles, termites, frozen in a syrup-sap.

As I listened, I no longer puzzled

over the playlist of the mockingbird.

I no longer remembered winter’s

frigid-tin temperature.

I no longer desired to write poems in the cemetery—

near my father’s grave.

There was no ache in my bones.

When lifting the planter, I saw the bright

epaulettes of the red winged blackbird.