Kathleen Brewin Lewis


On the trail to the ruined textile mill, the wild azaleas
are in bloom, the magnolia thick with fat white buds.
I mean to set my mantle of care down beside
this stony creek, hide it among the hardwoods.
Each step is a lightening, the sound of water
flowing over rocks a mercy.
After a mile or more, the Civil War relic comes into view,
banked and boarded beside the shoals.
There’s a breach in the old bricks and I step through,
into the dim and dusty quiet.  
A rustling in the eaves, small shower of leaves.
Doves or pigeons, I imagine, a snug nest of squirrels.
Instead a length of black rope falls from the rafters,
thuds on the ground, slithers into a dark corner.
I shiver, slip back where I came from—
into the day, the spring, this world.


Artwork on this page:
Detail of Climbing the giant
63 x 32.5" oil on wood, 2006
Irene Hardwicke Olivieri

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