No need to mark me with a stone
Remember me, or not
The measure of man was never the length
Of his obelisk, crypt, or plot
That won’t be me there, under the grass
To fret over whether it’s tended
You’ll hear me whisper through the rain
Until my sighs are ended
Unconfined to biomass
Beneath a polished rock
No telling what next form I’ll take
When I begin my walk.
"Jack Lewis takes the overall literary crown with his new book...there’s a lot more to Lewis’s work than what it feels like to ride motorcycles.” — Ultimate Motorcycling
"Insightful and from the heart ... a driven and much recommended look into the mind and conflict of the next generation of war veterans. " — Midwest Book Review (Reviewer's Choice)
To be the fleeting essence of a lovely bloom, comforting a weathered widow, would be enough.