Читать книгу Canticle of the Night Path - Jennifer Atkinson - Страница 10

Canticle of the Bitter Almond Tree

Is this spring—this gray-green net that snags the birds, this pruning hook—

Come now at last to wrest the almonds from their stupor?

Doubt is not irreversible, Love. Take care.

Without first the cold, the rehearsal of snow on the wet branches,

There are no blossoms or fruit—fruit kept for its hard pit, the flesh is cut away.

Almonds are just as much almonds at root, in leaf, as ash, as they are in blossom.

Will the feral cat, kinked tail twitching, a bird in her mouth,

Set it down to lap a dish of warm milk?