Learning to swim, by Bob Hicok At forty-eight, to be given water, which is most of the world, given life in water, which is most of me, given ease, which is most of what I lack, here, where walls don’t part to my hands, is to be born as of three weeks ago. Taking nothing from you, mother, or you, sky, or you, mountain, that you wouldn’t take if offered by the sea, any sea, or river, any river, or the pool, beside which a woman sits who would save me if I needed saving, in a red suit, as if flame is the color of emergency, as I do, need saving, from solid things, most of all, their dissolve. Share this:EmailPrintFacebookTwitterPinterestTumblrRedditPocketLike this:Like Loading...
Bed in Summer, by Robert Louis Stevenson In winter I get up at night And dress by yellow candle-light. In summer, quite the other way, I have to go to bed by day. I have to go to bed and see The birds still hopping on the tree, Or hear the grown-up people’s feet Still going past me in the street. And does it not seem hard to you, When all the sky is clear and blue, And I should like so much to play, To have to go to bed by day? Share this:EmailPrintFacebookTwitterPinterestTumblrRedditPocketLike this:Like Loading...