Elizabeth Wilkinson, Resting

Resting

Elizabeth Wilkinson

Sheltered by a small oak, Though the breeze chills and bites my cheeks. My book in hand is warmed By soft stanzas As I read to icy air.

No fainter than a whisper, still I worry about passersby Hearing my reciting of sonnets To the ones left cold.

I figure they’d like to listen, So I sit on old green stones. Reading poems to whom I imagine Are the attentive dead. Who have lain there for years, Craving a verse.