Читать книгу Ordinary Time - Michael D. Riley - Страница 17

I stayed here on the hill, with the flock.

Somebody had to. I told them, Don’t expect

me to run up and down after your

miserable thin sheep, but I’ll keep an eye

where I can. Fools need someone.

“Angels singing.” What next, for an upswing

of wind through scrub and fruitless dates.

If they studied the sky like I do

night after night on these rocks, they’d know

the elongated points on that star, its aura

like bright dust, its illusion of motion,

was not so unusual. I am no Roman,

but I have not spent my time collecting dust.

I have listened. I have even found reading

possible in bursts that thrilled my heart.

Yet here I sit watching the frost grow

over the stones that lie everywhere.

Against the cold I raise the wide sleeve

of this ragged wool cloak over my head,

left then right, until each arm locks up.

I must look like the temple cripple.

Rumor has it he raised his arm above

his head for years to praise and beg God for

. . . . . who knows. Then it froze, absurdly.

I pull my woolen holes together, for warmth.

I can see them kneeling and praying

in that cave’s weak light. What do they expect?

The Romans have a god for everything.

Why not? They rule the world. Made it, really.

Who’s to say? Their gods take good care of them.

Three of them are talking with their hands.

The other two walk silently, heads down.

Each one emerges from a cloud of frozen breath.

I will not embarrass them. Why should I?

We were children together. I will listen

closely, nodding my head. I will pray

with them. Yes. Why not? I cannot love

bitterness long. It is cold enough on these hills.

They have seen me. I wave back,

push the unburned twigs into the fire.