Rabbit (excerpt)Much later that night, or perhaps very early the next morning, when a splash of moonlight struck Petra in the face as coldly as a bucket of water, she realized she was sitting – or, rather, floating – in Tod's vegetable garden, she could not at first remember why she was there. Hadn't she gone to bed...?
Oh yes. That's right. Something has been stealing Tod's vegetables, and he asked me to sit up and watch over them. I must have dozed for a minute.
She drew her shawl around her more tightly. She did not feel cold, but she knew she ought to. Come to think of it, she couldn't feel the wind rustling through the tomato plants, although she could smell its delicious dewy coolness.
It seemed perfectly reasonable that she could see through her own body, that although she was sitting on a little hillock facing the vegetable patch her weight made no impression on the grass. That was how she knew she was floating.
The night, in fact, was warm – just as warm as if she wer
SongSing for me of soft silky rain and harsh morninglight
Sing for me of wrongs redressed and Adam’s first waking sight
Sing for me of clouds as cold
As proud the old
Sing loud the untold tale of forgotten waif
And secret sorrows given by adulterers' ill-kept faith
Of rainbow-beams and window-seat dreams weave my spell
Draw it dripping from clear minnow-streams and thrice-robbed gleaming oyster shell
Trace the flighting fairy's way
Let counselor and jester have each his say
And call the wind down from its play
In the tree-tops, in the tree-tops.
Sing for me of children's delight in lollipops
Sing of lovers' meadows, benches, lakes, and walks; of rosy arbors
And any other place hallowed by bliss and ardor
Sing of golden butterfly wings and brassy bell-tower rings
Of pale, penny-bright moon -
Of deepest dungeon unchanged by noon -
Set all to your soul's lonely tune - of these I charge you sing!
Sing me a song of beauty fair and poor
Of widows' cottages upon the moor
And heroes' paths n
In the Hollow Space Under the StairIn the hollow space under the stair
spiders breed all unaware
of an untrimmed door set in the wall
behind the paint, narrow and small.
This door opens on meadows bright –
even while the household sleeps at night –
or, perhaps, on rainy days
where water licks at stony quays,
and houses lean across canals,
and ships return from hunting whales;
or else, broaching lands of trolls,
cracks wide the face of hoary knoll.
In the pantry, by the box of bread
someone has a flashlight hid;
close by it, on upper shelves
is tucked away – a book of tales.
I say not who, I say not when
might journey to an hour's end
from the hollow space under the stair –
and all the household unaware!