Читать книгу The Skin of Meaning - Keith Flynn - Страница 14

When the trees bow

and bushes curtsy, as

the silk wind brushes

through my bramble-

cluttered garden, the

claws of the field mice

and piston-powered

rabbits scramble the

unbroken dirt, the

untended roses groan

under the weight of

their thorns, the

untethered tomato vines

sprawl and dump their

fire-red loads among

the robust weeds.

At one corner, Japanese

hornets have assembled

a gray colony the size

of a watermelon and

ward off semi-serious

excursions to pluck

a renegade bud or

puckered potato already

on the verge of rot.

A toxic black walnut

tree stands sentinel

at the leaning gate,

dropping its dark

grenades into the field’s

jumbled stalks. Two

squirrels quarrel over

which one should

command this wasted

circle first, the entire

acre fat on my neglect.