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.