7.4.11
Ruth
Striding along broken sidewalks
beyond the one-car garage,
desert air on her eyelids,
in her gray eyes a medina, draped
in wool and silk, scented with sweet-hot
mint tea, foaming in a clear glass,
bitter as everything she never did,
sparrow returning to its nest;
strong as love that lasted
half the time she’s spent
alone in a small brick house;
gentle as death, lifting her
above the neighborhood,
willing her plain garden
to children cutting through
to the meadow and the creek.
No comments:
Post a Comment