Parkers Mountain

　　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