Читать книгу The Hatching of the Heart - Margo Swiss - Страница 8

“April is the cruellest month . . . .”

(T. S. Eliot, The Burial of the Dead)

The buds are breaking, biting themselves in sleep.

They wrestle interminably under winter scales.

It would be good to make light of pain as the buds do,

fighting for life on the inside

but it is too early for life.

It is a time of retention.

Green lives if only in the mind.

Taut in my season

there are two reasons for which I endure,

rivalrous as any green thing:

April blooms shooting through snow,

God’s kinesis leafing in air.