ordinary people

Cherish

 

From the window I see her bend to the roses

holding close to the bloom so as not to

prick her fingers. With the other hand she clips, pauses and

clips, more alone in the world

than I had known. She won’t

look up, not now. She’s alone

with roses and with something else I can only think, not

say. I know the names of those bushes...

 

E poi la chiamo, contro

quel che avverrà: moglie, finché posso, finché il mio respiro, un petalo

affannato dietro l’altro, riesce ancora a raggiungerla.

 

Raymond Carver

Done