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The river, the one they call
The Drowningtide,
Appeared out of nowhere one spring,
Rushing across the furrows of tilled land.
In its wake, it left mud and death.
For a time, the dirty water flowed,
Cutting its channels through croplands
In a manageable current.
It irrigated the growth
Of useful things,
Of things that could be sold,
But it was always there,
Always covering land that before could be planted.
Sometimes, in the heat of summer,
It would dry up,
Teasing with the possibility of reclaiming those acres.
That was never wise.
The Flood was always in the offing,
Waiting to tear down the new growth.
In the evening,
I often sit on its bank,
And wonder if the day will come
When I throw myself into the river.
The Drowningtide,
Appeared out of nowhere one spring,
Rushing across the furrows of tilled land.
In its wake, it left mud and death.
For a time, the dirty water flowed,
Cutting its channels through croplands
In a manageable current.
It irrigated the growth
Of useful things,
Of things that could be sold,
But it was always there,
Always covering land that before could be planted.
Sometimes, in the heat of summer,
It would dry up,
Teasing with the possibility of reclaiming those acres.
That was never wise.
The Flood was always in the offing,
Waiting to tear down the new growth.
In the evening,
I often sit on its bank,
And wonder if the day will come
When I throw myself into the river.
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