Two poems by Kimberly K Williams


    alongside Boulder creek
where it nuzzles through the canyon
each flower bobbing in the breeze
paints her own miniature version
of the scene
                        hollyhock brushes
fuchsia in broad strokes and

                                            Queen Anne’s
lace dabs ivory

                        and beardtongue
coats lavender in white with little
sweeps of black

each painter doing her part                                                           

to depict          the river                leaping

                through the color-laden air


Not a single swallow but the gulp
of them in the distance, banking
along the sunset, up cliff-
sides, brushing against
gilded fingertips
and gliding

and it’s not a single swallow but a swoop
of them, the whole diving towards
dusk, skimming the swimming
hole’s surface and rising up
into the rafters
of night

it is never a single swallow but a richness,
cast like a net covering
clouds, then yanked
towards earth, moon crescent
fastened to pale morning light.

About the contributor

Kimberly K Williams
Kimberly K Williams is the author of two books of poetry, Finally the Moon, published by Stephen F. Austin University Press, and Sometimes a Woman, forthcoming from Recent Work Press in 2021. She lives in Canberra, Australia where she is pursuing a PhD in poetry. She is originally from Detroit, Michigan.

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