The Shrew<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I found him dead
\nIn a cold corner of the garden, between the rock
\nWall and the spring that never goes completely
\nDry, his small hands soft as a child\u2019s lost gloves, his blind eyes
\nClosed to the wet earth he came from where I returned
\nHim with only two turns
\nOf the shovel. Now, in this quiet house,
\nWhile my wife and son sleep and wind brushes the cold
\nFloor of dawn, with the year nearly gone, I wonder
\nHow we got this far and why
\nOur fathers pitched their tents under the old threats
\nOf storms and floods, cut sod to make roofs, outlasted
\nThe winter, dug deep for water in summer and stayed
\nAlive so far from here. And why the stars still cross
\nThe crooked sky and why the fox flashing in the fairy tale returns
\nTo me tonight like the dreaming face of the shrew and the narrow tunnels
\nHe must have made, here, with the first month of winter buried
\nIn leaves and rain and waiting for snow to fall again
\nLike the light of that small heart that just went out,
\nAnd the larger one that pauses and then goes on
\nOf its own accord, waiting for the first slight song
\nTo rise from the blue edge of the world, greeting the New Year with love
\nAnd hope because our fathers came for the dream that wouldn\u2019t leave
\nThem, put candles in the greased paper
\nWindows of those first houses so the lost could come home,
\nAnd prayed for the dead because they were.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
“The Shrew” is reprinted from Last Night<\/em><\/a> (Lynx House Press, 2012), winner of the Blue Lynx Prize.<\/a><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Thomas Brush’s<\/a> poems have appeared in Poetry,<\/a> Poetry Northwest, Prairie Schooner, The Iowa Review, Mid-American Review, Crazyhorse, North American Review,<\/a><\/em> and many other journals and anthologies. \u00a0The quality of this work has been acknowledged by fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, the National Endowment for the Humanities, Artist Trust,<\/a> and the Washington State Arts Commission. He lives in Seattle.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" The Shrew I found him dead In a cold corner of the garden, between the rock Wall and the spring that never goes completely Dry, his small hands soft as a child\u2019s lost gloves, his blind eyes Closed to … Continue reading