SPRING STORMYesterday I burned the toastso I went down to the rapids.It was not a bright morning.Close to shore a small twigspun on an eddy. The eddywas frilled like a doily, and seethed.The twig was helpless to go anywhereexcept around and around.On the horizon plumes of smokerose like poplar trees. There wasthe sun, punched into the skylike the sky's navel. The river,pricked and lifted by windhooks.Mist puffing up, the sky black then white.Columns of air I could have walkedlike pathways to waiting jets,walked into the skyhold. I'm telling you:then the river reared up like a dragon,scales flapping, the sun, smoke,the far faint islands, allcollapsed in the froth of its lashing.I had never been so small,atomic. I was tossed. I have tosay "maelstrom." I wanted out.I wanted time to turn back.When I felt the ground again I wasshaking. It seemed I could reachin any direction and touch the oppositeshore, the islands, the mist and smoke.The gaps among things had closed.I'm telling you this because I have notbeen able to separate them, and nowall wounds are nothing, are blips,leaf-toss. Nothing resists.When I leave, understand, I will not be gone.
From the chapbook Twenty Views of the Lachine Rapids (Gaspereau, 2012) by Susan Gillis.