I was looking through some old writing files tonight and found a poem I wrote back in 2003. Sadly, it reminded me of the recent catastrophic flooding folks here in Colorado experienced last month. Isn’t it sad that sometimes everything you know has to be ripped away from you before you can begin to rebuild?
Drying, cracking, ribbon like,
a creek bed unvisited
by the very one who owns it.
Aching, looking, a young girl’s search
timelessness, quietness, seeping in.
Rocks and mold, age-old formations,
pebbles between her middle toes,
insects crawling among the lines.
Then rainfall arrived
and arrived, and stayed late;
foaming clay-mud swirls
filling a crisp canvas
and erased the lines
betrayed the ants
silenced the quiet
and swallowed the land,
unmade the bed,
sheets all torn
only to slip back and taunt again.
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