Читать книгу Waking - Ron Rash - Страница 13

Strange how I never once woke

in a hall, on a porch step,

but always outside, bare feet

slick with dew-grass, the house

deeper shadow, while above

moon leaning its round shoulder

to the white oak’s limbs, stars thrown

skyward like fistfuls of jacks.

Rising as if from water

the way dark lightened, it all

slow-returning, reluctant,

as though while I’d been sleeping

summoned away to attend

matters other than a child’s

need for a world to be in.