When that flood came last month, the timing seemed perfect.
I had been searching for a way to start a poem. Brown
silted water, flowing rapidly over low spots in our lawn,
three wide streams, filling up and spilling, splitting
then rejoining, moving towards the sharp edge
of the riverbank - all those possibilities for
metaphor, one large - or many small and separate.
And then the dangerous dirty water got too close
to the house, started slipping under
the big door of the storage shed
where tools and junk and memories
live. I started looking for large stones
to pile up, make diversions,
change the direction of the flow.
I doubted if all that effort would be effective.
But the rain stopped.
Damming became unnecessary.
A part of me was disappointed.
Controlling the Narrative by jim bourey | Poetry Reed Diffuser Set
$20.00Price
