1
The Scarlet Ibis
JAMES HURST
It was in the clove of seasons, summer was dead but autumn
had not yet been born, that the ibis lit in the bleeding tree.
1
The
flower garden was strained with rotting brown magnolia petals and
ironweeds grew rank amid...
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1
The Scarlet Ibis
JAMES HURST
It was in the clove of seasons, summer was dead but autumn
had not yet been born, that the ibis lit in the bleeding tree.
1
The
flower garden was strained with rotting brown magnolia petals and
ironweeds grew rank amid the purple phlox.
The five o clocks by the
chimney still marked time, but the oriole nest in the elm was
untenanted and rocked back and forth like an empty cradle.
The last
graveyard flowers were blooming, and their smell drifted across the
cotton field and through every room of our house, speaking softy the
names of our dead.
It s strange that all this is still so clear to me, now that summer
has long since fled and time has had its way.
A grindstone stands
where the bleeding tree stood, just outside the kitchen door, and now
if an oriole sings in the elm, its song seems to die up in the leaves, a
silvery dust.
The flower garden is prim, the house a gleaming white,
and the pale fence across the yard stands stra
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