Читать книгу Дикий ирис. Аверн. Ночь, всеохватная ночь - Луиза Глик - Страница 97

End of August. Heat

like a tent over

John’s garden. And some things

have the nerve to be getting started,

clusters of tomatoes, stands

of late lilies – optimism

of the great stalks – imperial

gold and silver: but why

start anything

so close to the end?

Tomatoes that will never ripen, lilies

winter will kill, that won’t

come back in spring. Or

are you thinking

I spend too much time

looking ahead, like

an old woman wearing

sweaters in summer;

are you saying I can

flourish, having

no hope

of enduring? Blaze of the red cheek, glory

of the open throat, white,

spotted with crimson.