Читать книгу Weather Report - Rhonda Batchelor - Страница 9

Here to Feed Grace

who greets my arrival at the gate,

moves among my feet, along

the path wetly paved with

half-frozen December leaves,

leans on the door.

I fumble for the key,

carry my overnight bag

inside, take off my boots,

hang up my coat.

I am the season’s warmth,

human kindness, giving

to be given

in return. There is a cry

to be let out

when Grace

has had her fill.