We’ve stopped watching the news
All they say is that more rain is coming
But I knew because of the heavy winter snows
And if the rains came all at once
We’d see the river roar outside its banks
The river is running fast and angry
Swallowing all of our fields and streets
Taking back what we had stolen
My great-great grandfather had escaped the trail of tears
And became European to settle this land
But he secretly kept the spirit of the people
And it’s been handed down to me as I have
Passed it along to my sons and daughters
Spring planting will be late this year
The river doesn’t bring riches to our fields anymore
Just mud that hardens like cement in the sun
We spent last night sandbagging the river bank
And I heard someone’s dog go by yelping at the dark
I moved as much as I could upstairs
Our second floor is groaning over the amount of stuff
That we have
And hope to keep
The wife is worn with worry
Over more than her great-grandmother’s porcelain
But we’re the lucky ones
Charlie’s house was taken
It sat on a bluff that the river ate away and then
His house fell into the muddy waters
The state guard would have been here to help
But no one is left here in our state
They’re all over there, fighting
Just another administration killing others on a path of tears
I’m tired and this is the last flood that I’ll battle
What’s left will be left – time to move to higher ground
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5 comments:
Yikes! Is this really happening to you? I hope not. Well, anyway, I marvel at th odysseys you build with your poems. This one is as rambunctious as the rolling river itself.
This sounds really familiar, like I've heard it before. Very good Harry. Sounds like a Spring that I've lived through.
I, too, feel the torrent in this, but its effect burrows not into the soil but into the heart and soul of our country. The flood comes from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue and it threatens us all. Hopefully it has crested and will soon go the way of all pestilence.
Harry, well wishes to you and your neighbors if you are experiencing a flood, if the waves aren't lapping at the door you've captured the moment brilliantly. I still remember sand-bagging for a week straight in '93 in the town my grandfather lived. After three floods in his lifetime he finally decided to move to higher ground.
Was this about the yearly red river flood?
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