by Paul J. Willis
There is a girl reading on the lawn.
Last week a cypress tree fell where she lies.
Now there is grass, and peace—the tree is gone.
And there’s a girl reading on the lawn.
The sky is blue, a football sails on,
and higher up hang-gliders stoop and rise;
there’s one I know that landed after dawn
and dented in a roof and broke his brawn.
But there’s a girl reading on the lawn.
And neither trees nor young men from the skies
nor footballs dropping past can put upon
a lovely girl reading on the lawn.