Arts of the Earth
This will be my dinner for today, a stale bread sandwich and a warm Coke, to arrive and nobody being there to welcome. Here life is cheap or worth pennies only And I came to stay, but my will is on…
Source: The foreigner by Andrés Marcial
I came in early
From working
On a day
I’d long planned
To cut back
Over grown plants
In the garden
But then the rains came
A grey mist at first
Blowing steadily
From the west ridge
Over the lee
Of the Oak woods
I sat in the kitchen
The back door
Had been open
Most of the day
I watched rain falling
And recalled
For some reason
The first time
I’d read through
Regarding Wave.
Gusting winds
Of a summer gale
Blowing in off
The Irish Sea
Sweeps through
The Birch
At the top of the garden
Littering the soil
With its leaves
I live in a small house
That in bad weather
Takes on the feel
Of a small ship
Buffeted
By high seas
And swept
By those Westerlies.
Even the cactus wren surrenders itself to the task, though it rarely listens to my voice. How do clouds blossom day to day and leave so little behind? The bookless shelf begs to be filled, but inst…
