February 2016
Kathleen Brewin Lewis
klew1215@bellsouth.net
klew1215@bellsouth.net
I'm a Georgia writer who focuses on the natural and the lyrical. I love to hike along the Chattahoochee River in Atlanta, the beach at Tybee Island, and the mountains of western North Carolina. My daughter has recently moved to Boulder, Colorado, and I'm looking forward to learning the trails there. My first chapbook, Fluent in Rivers, was published by FutureCycle Press in 2014, and my second chapbook, July's Thick Kingdom, in December of 2015. Recent publication credits include Southern Humanities Review, The Tishman Review, Cider Press Review, and Menacing Hedge.
Still
I’m still waiting for you to appear in the feathery clouds, my heaven-gone father. –Cecilia Woloch
Spring arrives early where we come from,
on the fat-oaked, moss-draped coast.
At your burial in late February, the azaleas
were already blooming, sand gnats circling
in the warm Geechee air. I was hot
with grief and anger; your winter
had come too soon.
In the eighteen years since, you have sent:
one spectacular rainbow arching over the marsh,
a soft and unexpected snowfall, a lone heron
watching from a drought-drained pond.
I don’t expect signs any more, still
send up prayers, ask you to guide
my children as they make their way
through this obstacled world.
If you are reading this over my shoulder—
and I like to think you are—I want to tell you
that spring has come early again this year.
Bulbs have burst through the ground
to scent this place; palmettos clatter
in the breeze. Though I have learned
to bury anger, in this warmed soil,
my grief blooms still.
-from my chapbook, July's Thick Kingdom
I’m still waiting for you to appear in the feathery clouds, my heaven-gone father. –Cecilia Woloch
Spring arrives early where we come from,
on the fat-oaked, moss-draped coast.
At your burial in late February, the azaleas
were already blooming, sand gnats circling
in the warm Geechee air. I was hot
with grief and anger; your winter
had come too soon.
In the eighteen years since, you have sent:
one spectacular rainbow arching over the marsh,
a soft and unexpected snowfall, a lone heron
watching from a drought-drained pond.
I don’t expect signs any more, still
send up prayers, ask you to guide
my children as they make their way
through this obstacled world.
If you are reading this over my shoulder—
and I like to think you are—I want to tell you
that spring has come early again this year.
Bulbs have burst through the ground
to scent this place; palmettos clatter
in the breeze. Though I have learned
to bury anger, in this warmed soil,
my grief blooms still.
-from my chapbook, July's Thick Kingdom
©2016 Kathleen Brewin Lewis