by Michael E. Williams
Wasp
hydrangeas in a ball mason jar
a vine wreath encircling them
on a table made of weathered wood
the smell of sausage frying in a black skillet
sneaks through the open kitchen door
the wasp I failed to kill creeps back
and forth along the table’s edge
he and I are cautious of each other now
we who are partners in hunger and death
On Center Hill
behind the scrim
of mist this
morning
the lake disappears
past the trees
past the porch
past the door
soon I will gather
kindling for tonight’s
fire whose
light will
rival the fiery stars
rival the sun
that burns away
the scrim of
morning
beneath the porch
carved in relief
on a single log
an owl keeps watch
keeps her own counsel
keeps her wisdom
to herself
MICHAEL E. WILLIAMS was born in Kentucky and grew up in Tennessee. His poems have appeared inSouthern Poetry Review, Southern Humanities Review, Cold Mountain Review, The Anglican Theological Review, and a number of other journals. He lives in Nashville, Tennessee.
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