Читать книгу Dead Man's Float - Jim Harrison - Страница 16

Soul

My spirit is starving.

How can it be fed?

Not by pain in the predictable future

nor the pain in the past

but understanding the invisible flower

within the flower that tells it what is,

the soul of the tree that does the same.

I don’t seem to have a true character

to discover, a man slumped on his desk

dozing at midmorning. I’m an old poet.

That’s it. Period. A three-legged goat

in mountain country. It’s easier in the woods

where you have trees to lean on. There at times

I smelled bears right behind the cabin

coming to eat sunflower seeds put out for birds.

This dawn it’s primroses, penstemon,

the trellis of white roses. On Easter

Jesus is Jesus. When did God enter him or us?