PATRICK LEWIS

Wildflowers

There was only my breath--
labored, but steady and strong.
The clean air stung my bleeding
knees. I pushed brambly
curtains aside. The thicket
pricked at my skin. The sky
was unspeakably blue.

Laughter

I'm picking the pieces of a
broken mirror
and scouring the bloodier
corners of my room
...

Song of What Isn’t

Prowl​​

​How long I have spent in wordless thought
in search of words for what is not
I care not to know and so know not. 
I think each unthawed thought of the past
has come to be lost

The year is 1922, and in this sleepy Michigan hamlet the night of the first snow has brought silence to the world. The powder piles deeply around each oaken home, where it shifts mystically by faint firelight or gleams in the newer electric glare. ​

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