In a seldom-entered attic you force a balky door, disclosing a room made brilliant by an orange tree whose branches bear no fruit but maple leaves; We’re in New England, after all. Though rippling foliage fills the pane, the flush that tints the wall will last a week or two, no more. * And this conception, if consoling, of a high, untenanted room lit solely by a tree houses as well–at least for those who’d sidestep round the fear that in the give-and-take of calls to answer, calls to make, we lose the light most dim, most clear— a reprimand no breeze can shake.
Excerpted from Curves and Angles by Brad Leithauser Copyright © 2006 by Brad Leithauser. Excerpted by permission of Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.