Poetry by Rowe Williams
It’s an early spring morning,
but it already smells like summer.
A faint scent of dry, dying grass
and clear sky.
Four men struggle, half-heartedly,
in that male tradition of moving mildly
heavy furniture. And this day, I
am one of those men.
We all know, from some instinct or
indoctrination, to show no sign of struggle.
“What, this thing? Practically a feather.”
I, too, follow the rules of this ritual.
But a light sweat beads on my heated
skin to betray me. Not enough to
drip, just cling to my round
face, in little drops, cooling me
as they vaporize into that clear sky,
leaving behind the salts
of my existence.
My father, disentangling the last
needed strap to confine the last
piece of furniture says, unironically,
“Free at last.”
About the Poet
Rowe Williams is an aspiring poet, currently studying in college for a Bachelor’s degree in science, as it so happens, having only recently discovered the joy of poetry.