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Three
Poems by
Paula Bonnell
Indrio
Road
Trees
reach toward each other, making a lane of shadow on this
stretch of main road. Paved and straight, busy with cars,
yet these arms of live oak make a deep shelter that recalls
those drives to central Texas -- the swimming-hole
just ahead, lemonade in the cooler chilled by the block
of frozen chili thawing in this heat, to be eaten after
sundown when we camp in Palmetto State Park.
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A
New Sight from a Familiar Place Shown to Me
by a New Friend
It's
not flat, Hutchinson Field, it falls away toward the tidal
mouth of the Neponset, yet here on its rounded brow, we see --
not its steep descent to the expanse of marsh which lies
beneath the chin of this hill -- but the tall grass, the
solitary oaks, the edging of treetops beyond which, on the
other shore in heat-hazy air, stand a few multistory
buildings overlooking the river as it lets into the
harbor.
And then, walking farther on Adams Street -- past the crest at
the Field to where the hill begins to slope down, amid houses
where people have lived since clipper- ship days -- through
the bare branches of a small tree, we can see, distantly
north of us, small from this vantage, the massed forms of a
white cityscape -- Boston as seen from the corner of a high
field, a city to sail to, docks to return to, even from
far- distant Chinas, then and now.
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