Aftermath
The earth hereabouts is past the point
Of wet, resuming the long, slow dryout
That started with August. The asphalt
(Not earth exactly but of it, from it,
Atop an ungodly amount of it) serves
As the surest gage, slate softening to
Tarnished sterling, all the glisten gone.
It will take longer for the high waters
In the hills to draw down, longer still for
What was broken to heal—if it ever can.
Tomorrow is a lie we tell ourselves
To get through today, the expectation
The current will carry us steady on
Unspoken beneath every heartbeat
Until the river roils and reveals the
Precarity of the instant, let alone the
Hour, or recedes and leaves us like
Driftwood to dream of yesterday.
9/29/2024