Читать книгу Weather Report - Rhonda Batchelor - Страница 12

May’s End

The robin’s swan song,

insistent, urgently cheerful,

draws me to the window

where I see nothing more

than the sky finally clearing

in the west now that the sun has set.

Wet cedars droop into night.

I move through rooms

extinguishing lights,

when the bird’s startled cry

calls me again.

The flat plane struggles to reveal

what’s left of the longer view.

Not wanting reflection to confirm

how tired, how old, I look

beyond the pale moon of my face.

There is grace in the world’s turning,

if not in the way I draw

the curtain, or turn to leave the room.