Читать книгу Rising - Jane Beal - Страница 9

I touch the map on the table gently,

curious about what it means,

trying to decipher the square-boxed legend

in its corner that should tell me how to read,

but the symbols are obscure code,

and the language seems foreign

like something I learned in childhood

but forgot.

Now my translating skills are as rusty

as a tin watering-can left out too long

in rainy weather

in a garden that was over-grown

—where roses, over-blown, twisted

through ivy covering gray stone—

and the mystery of the unreadable map

pains me as I look out the window

where the sunlight is nevertheless still shining

bright—and very clear.