The Firewater
I.
Sometimes it is hinted at in whispers.
Breezes. The wide-eyed cattle who cling
side by side, flank to flank bawling at first
and loudly
and then silent know.
It is the pressure. They feel it
When there is not yet a cloud
They smell it in the air
like the tell-tale smell of liquor on the
breath.
They smell it and they know.
The breezes hint more strongly
the air becomes colder by degrees
until we, too, begin to huddle for warmth.
We smell it, too. We feel it
now. A drop...not to worry.
And this is the beginning of the flood.
II
It always starts slowly
Pitter patter....children scatter
to find shelter
leaving their games behind.
Helplessly herded and hushed.
Hide-and-seek no more.
Bawling, clinging to Mother's side
and searching in her eyes
which reflect only the grey approaching
and coldness.
Some would say we should have seen it coming
In their restlnessness.
And some would blame them.
Regardless, it comes.
Slowly.
The Firewater!
III
The winds whimpering winds to a wail
and alarming drops tear into, onto, over...
Pitter patter...doesn't matter
We tell ourselves
Surely it will pass.
but the gutters now are overflowing.
Now the windows are blurred
We fear and we can't reach out
to wipe them dry.
The gutters are overflowing
the firewater pushes, tears, shoves
Throwing up from the gutter here
and there a dead leaf. Soaked.
It begins to become apparent that our Mother
impermeable Nature is not always kind.
and the windows are blurred.
The windows are closed
to keep the storm out
to keep us from the storm's screams, or
perhaps we don't want the neighbors to
see us cowering like cattle
flank to flank.
but now, of course, we can't see
outside. The windows are bleary.
We want to hide and seek but
We can't see past the tearing rain.
We can't see the playground.
We want our games.
IV.
Perhaps it is then that we realize
Walls are useless, windows blinding
and a roof no protection.
We look again to Mother,
Searching her eyes to see
only the grey.
She struggles angrily with the storm.
Storm opposing storm
wind on wind
Jetstream and breath
rain opposing ice
searching her eyes to see
Only stormy reflections.
what now (?)
We look for a father.
Father lies in the grasp of the storm.
We fear and we can't reach out
We fear that he shall be driven by the wind and
tearing rain
like so many leaves, soaked.
Driven until he lies like so many dead
Leaves in stagnant puddles
Tossed, broken, and soaked to lie
where the wind can no longer lift like leaves.
Soaked. Leaves. Left,
Mother has blown away. Impermeable.
The wind whispers now. Screaming
left to children.
V.
Orphaned, now the storm is over
Bawling calves wander restlessly
heads down finding stagnant reflections
in sterile puddles
searching for mothers and dry ground.
We breathe deeply, now the storm is gone.
We fill our lungs, and eyes.
We find a sterile world.
We breathe the sterile air
and shield our eyes from
stagnant reflections in sterile puddles.
We, homeless, search as well. Until
We find a father's charred body
Drowned,
But as the grey subsides
A reflection in the skies
Reminds us of the wondring eyes
of a father. A reflection
of a father. A reflection
of a father. A reflex...
I suppose it is a reflex.
No...a dance...of degrees.
By intense effort
slowly, clumsily, eagerly
by degress
by the call of some divine voice
(like Lazarus)
and as we watch in awe
Father comes forth.
Father regains life.
The stagnant water drains.
A new life begins.
copyright1992anthonybaldwin
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