Poetry by Michelle Delaine Williams
Seven kayakers muscle the rapids.
They cling, swing and dodge for their lives.
Long light glances off water. Everything
moves toward the turn. Even my cells know.
The pieces of a 50-year summer shift
into place. The wild Metolius roils on.
Over mountains where fir turns to pine, bark burnt
like brownie crust, summer’s dust. Sun heaves
underneath a distant note, something akin
to wood smoke, the long-tired patience of wool.
Do you see across the river? A black bear has found
the last berries, now sparse and shriveled to dark.
Michelle Delaine Williams is a writer and editor living in Portland, Oregon. She is a current Atheneum fellow and co-host of Fridays on the Boulevard at the Attic Institute. Her work is forthcoming in Verseweavers.