Flood

The valley behind my house flooded from

three days of ceaseless rain.

A pond of thick mud-water,

out of place in the residential landscape.

The smell of wet dog hair lingers in my nose and

a slimy layer of oil coats my forehead.

I wonder if I waded out for an earth bath

if the liquid would weigh heavy around my shoulders,

slowly soaking my neck, eyes, and lungs,

covering my bare body in icy mud, sinking in the depths of the flood.

Eyes of curiosity are fixed on the expanding pool,

quenched by heavy drops spilling from iridescent grey above.

 

How deep does the water flow?

Deeper than the wrinkles in my hands,

than the dirt under my fingernails?

May I soak my calloused skin?

Soothe my scars and heal my burns,

a rejuvenative juice,

nature’s cure for the abuse of time.

 

Unlike the flowing rivers of my youth, smooth and

fed with spring clarity,

bouncing over rocks of play,

(ah, the blissful spontaneity),

this pool of now is dense with silt,

exhausted and heavy, heavy.

 

Branches above droop with saturation, lazy droplets slide to join the opaque lake that

captivates my full attention.

But I stay in the comfort of shelter, and

refrain from shedding my cotton skin to

soak in the dark bath of my visions.

From afar I obsess over this temporary pool, and

dream for the duration of its existence

about the weight of its waters,

imagining my body, afloat on density, submerged in murky depths,

immersing my ears to silently listen to the echo of earth.