Receding Waters

Yesterday the water ran over the road,
high and dark and fast.
You could not cross it. Even trying
would have meant being swept downstream,
mere flotsam in the storm.

Today the water is high, but less dangerous.
You can see the road
and you are amazed it survived
when yesterday’s current has carried away
all the scenery, transforming the view
in one angry night of rain and wind.

The grass will grow again. You know this.
You have weathered worse storms,
each one tearing a bit of your strength,
of your courage, and sending it to places unknown.

You wonder, where does it go?
Where does it land and somewhere are there souls
or Satans who collect it like silk,
becoming stronger with each strand as they stand near the sea
with their nets?

The grass will grow again. You know this.
It is painful, this pruning, another season of loss,
but with pruning comes new growth
and spring they tell you, is close as a whisper,
reminding you the storm has passed,
the road is safe
and there are journeys yet to take.

About this poem

I didn’t want to get up this morning. Not the mere “the bed feels cozy” kind of resistance to morning, but residual sadness from the past week and my father’s death. Yesterday it all, not just his death but the losses of the entire year, washed over me. Somehow, I preached a sermon, visited with friends. But the rest of the day was a blur of sadness.

Obviously I did get up. And set myself on my normal disciplined path of writing and work. The flood waters are still high. But life goes on, unless you choose to let yourself wash downriver. And I suck at surrender. I am always too curious to know what’s next.

And there is always a next.

Tom