Patrick McKenna Lynch Smith, author

Patrick M L Smith, author




No lovelier form of God I know
than woman.  Against all others to compare,
whether trees through which summer breezes blow,
or the star fall, river run -  her hair…
she’s brushing her hair -  or leaf turn,
or the softening light of late afternoon,
and even the ease when evening fires burn,
or the clarity of a winter moon -
she sets the brush aside,
and now naked at the mirror stands,
touches her breasts, turns to the side,
over the flare of hips runs her hands.
“I grow old,” she says.  I nod to her. 
“Yes,” I say.  “And lovelier.”




A New Compass   

The lilacs don't hurt me this year,
and I'm unsure if this is because I grow numb
or merely accustomed to you dead,
or something else I become,


unknown, and thus uncharted,
for my map is old and the territory is new,
without signposts or pathways;

it is pure passage I merge into.


Thus quite simple is what I learn:
It is forward, forward, no matter which way I turn.



My Wife's Favors      

How absurd that death must come
when I have so many things to do,
like look down the front of Claudia's dress
when her posture tempts the view. 
Yes, ridiculous that all things must end,
after such favors of lean and bend.