by Kate Knapp Johnson

by Kate Knapp Johnson
     It is the summer bears ruled， the last summer
     of pure breathlessness
     when I moved unaware， taken in
     by the netted branches of raspberries， held
     in trance by the sweet air
     of the orchards. My grandfather
     died at home one night in early July
     as expected， and the white clouds drifted like snow
     on the face of the black lake.
     Grandmother swept her porch clean， every morning
     pushed grief under the railings like wisps
     of an old bird's nest. Together
     we watched the she-bear heave both bins
     of garbage across the red clay road， her cubs
     somersaulting each other， never minding
     their mother's cautioning strikes. It is the summer
     I was on the brink of seeing
     some unexperienced light， although I stood
     in darkness， or swam in spools
     of dark while everything was bright around；
     the gold lilies and their shadows flickered
     one on one and the two swans stayed
     faithful and fierce in their cove. I was twelve
     and though I knew language
     I did not know the meaning of things——
     I lived within a lattice of time， unhurt，
     undifferentiated， so that even in remembering now
     there is only the singular quality
     of that time itself； while I was there，
     in its duration， I was possessed， wind-mastered
     as the scrolled fields of clouds and disappointed
     when the spell was broken and the real snow
     came， and the cold.