Читать книгу Waking - Ron Rash - Страница 18

They belonged to the mother

of my grandmother, removed

the morning she died, each lens

a clear coin, arms and rims

tarnished gold wire, folded in

their black velvet-lined casket

two decades, until I wiped

dust from each lens, let my face

look out a window to see

the world as she did, and saw

a gray blur become a barn,

apples emerge from green sleeves

of branches, and told no one.