The Corner




Flowers and weeds together spill,

Careless and drizzly, down the hill


In a long back garden that’s anywhere

Outside London. I am living there


Beside the window, no longer trying

At all, but easily, innately dying


Far from the shame for what I broke,

Far from the urge for a brilliant stroke.


The neighbor’s son, who’s a little slow,

Comes every couple months to mow –


No worry of mine what he achieves:

I’m even grateful for what he leaves.


Yes, it’s pure nonsense, any place

Closer to God’s own “presence,” His “face”:


Hardly a joke I could call unknown

By now, or a good one — but leave me alone,


As if I were twenty-one and stood

Staring and seeing as much as I could;


As if I were twelve and lay in bed,

Sensing an arm on my back, my head


On a sturdy chest, and a voice in my ear.

What I hope, I know; now leave me here.


 Sarah Ruden

NR Staff — Members of the National Review editorial and operational teams are included under the umbrella “NR Staff.”

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