Imagine this poem as a room,
the windows draped in filmy white
to frame the birches veiled for spring
in tender green. A piano plays, selections
of Bach's preludes from the Feinberg days.
The air is perfumed lightly with the scent
of early-blooming trees, and someone
sits and quietly rereads Lermontov.
Above all, harmony and fragrance, living
presences prevail; spring-water and fresh
lemon tea; room to move, and space to breathe.
If I had the power, I would bring this dacha
into being, filled with sunlight, flowers,
birdsong, all your friends, and poetry.
23.02.03
В ответ
Imagine
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103022300543
Свидетельство о публикации №103022300543
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