OConnor at Andalusia英文诗词

by Floyd Skloot

It came with the steady pace of dusk，

slow shadings in the distance， a sense of light

growing soft at the center of her body.

It came like evening to the farm

bearing silence and a promise of rest.

There was nothing to say it was there

till she found herself unable to move

and stillness settled its net over the bed.

A crimson disc of pain suddenly flushed

from her hips like a last flaring of sun.

She believed the time had come

to welcome this perfect weakness

that had no memory of strength，

a mercy even as darkness hardened

inside her joints. It was not to be

missed. Nor was the mercy of sight：

she believed the time had come

to measure every moment and map

the place she soon must leave.

At least she had been given time，

though her wish would have been

an hour more for each leaf visible

from her window， a day for trees，

a week for birds and month to savor

the voice of each friend who called.

Though she never belonged in the heart

of this world， she gave this world her heart.

Within her stillness she remembered

the first signs： that brilliant butterfly

rash on her face， a blink that lasted

for hours， the delicate embrace of sleep

veering as in a dream toward the grip

of death， hunger vanishing like hope.

Her body no longer knew her body as itself

but this too was a mercy. To leave herself

behind and then return was instructive.

To wax and wane， to live beyond

the body and know what that was like，

a gift from God， a mixed blessing shrouded

in the common cloth of loss. Half her life

she practiced death and resurrection.

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