WRITTEN BY: Kathleen Brewin Lewis
Encounter in a Dry Riverbed
There are stones here--ivory and gray--
rubbed ovoid and smooth
by a vanished river.
Firs stand silent in a pale breeze.
Lone raptor in the sky:
black against blue.
White vapor trail, stunning
as a God-made thing.
A fox appears, red and long-legged,
coal stockings. He stops, stares,
comes on, passes close enough
to touch. I will never
be the same.
Above All Else
The meadow, falling into shade.
A worn path through oat grass,
thistle, milkweed. The lofty view
from the outcrop: cursive river,
written in graphite. In the draft
of late afternoon, buzzards soar
with such grace, I nearly forget
why they’re here.
By June the light
begins to breathe.
have cleared the air
and the year is sure of itself,
at ease. The corn blades up
through warmed soil.
Tomatoes redden. Trees
hold children in their leafy arms.
The sky is the usual blue,
quotidian, dear. The bright
hemisphere draws in, blows out,
like the respiration
of saffron-robed monks.