Читать книгу Other Seasons - Harold J. Recinos - Страница 27

I noticed one afternoon sitting

on the stoop the quiet figure of

an old woman looking left and

right like she was about to reveal

something. centuries ago her

ancestors inhaled the mysteries

reflected through her wrinkled

eyes, they built the sacred cities

in the forests and the clouds, and

charted the movement of the stars.

and now this treasure sits on the

stoop next to me drying children’s

tears.