the flood

the flood that rose that night as we slept carried away my chair and my books and you vaulted the wall,

i followed. and we ran as fast as we could, just as fast as the flood had found us.

there were trees by johnson’s landing that grabbed the debris of our lives greedy for reminders of how strong it stood against the flood and held on to our things until dried mud-crusted.

i can’t imagine how steam driven boats like hotels could have traveled the river. how small it looked the night that i asked you to marry me, how peaceful the night our son was born. how still through the day that the old man lie dying.

days of hard rain and nights of cold damp and dawns of filthy grey clouds, we remembered the waters level with the windows of the house and the days spent in the room on the second floor.

lifeless mostly until help arrived, the river stood back and tired people swept and mopped the mud and the junk, cleaned water stained floors and prepared to replant, rebuild, restart.

unnatural blue skies, bleach white houses the rolling hills of wisconsin. i think of dried clumps of mud on my boot, orange vest in the woods behind the ridge, dull thuds echoing down the holler, i think of the fresh warm blood on the leaves and grass. i think of the water and the sun, of the wind and the fire.