Poetry

...A Fragment Here lie the bones Of an old woman for whom life Was very sweet Down to the smallest Leaf the briefest Flash of dew Or firefly In the hedge or night Of rain and thunder...

...A Morning Dream Towards morning In a shallow sleep I dreamed a dream About a small black woman Who somehow Sat facing me In a wooden chair Her hands Were resting in her lap Her face was seamed With poverty and age And she was wearing A dark Sunday dress With a print of roses She had been reading us Passages from the Gospels And it was beautiful The way she read them I thanked her for it Sometimes I read like that She said It's from the Lord...

...POEMS Anne Porter Old in the City You grow geraniums And crochet baby-bonnets But you walk slowly Every day more slowly As if there were a rock In your poor belly You stay away from doctors They'd send you to the hospital Where pieces are cut out of you And after that you die Instead you walk to the park Where there are oaks and elm trees That stream up to the sun With triumph in their branches Where there's a secret nation Of squirrels who find it convenient To set up their nests in the treetops Like vendors who set up their stalls By the steps of a great cathedral And sometimes you sit in the playground Waiting for the children Who come when school is out They rush in all together Throwing their books on the benches And racing to the swings Over and over again Their feet in their battered sneakers Fly up into the air And their hair too is flying A wordless and intent Delight is in their faces...