Member Poem

for C.K. Williams

Stillness
after reading a poem –
digestion,
not a grind it up
spit it out pig
to sausage process
just
a moment
of quiet observation,
appreciation:
assembling new worlds.

When,
at 33, my cousin died,
my aunt, estranged
from the family, felt
the upswell of inborn love.

Forgetting a little.
Forgiving a little.

Stillness
after the last breath
out:
expiration, like a sigh
at the end of a long day
just
a moment
when muscles let go
before the next
task.

Digestion:
quiet rest
as inner gears
click and warble,
picking bits of straw
and leaves and twigs –
nesting.

Mending a little.
Repairing a little.

A good poem
does that –
it stops your heart

only
to beat a little faster,
a little warmer:
butterfly wings
in June.