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After the Flood 2010 The woods, God’s faithful servant, marks the season

Where massive clods of roots and dirt from hundred-year-old poplars

Lie in repose in the once clear meadow,

Near living oaks on the precipice of becoming lumber

With a good gust of wind that will lay waste to another den of fox.

The once and constant woods that held our woes without

Shedding a single leaf looks more fragile than our own flesh.

It was a sacred heart that bled when floods carved new gullies

Deep into her flesh and bones.

There is a chasm where water crushed everything

Like chariots in the path of Moses’s unflinching staff.

The woods were a handmaiden, almost forsaken, as the flood

Changed the course of her life forever.

 

The resilient woods never cowered in the aftermath.

She began  her rebirth with no bitterness toward brother water.

She sheltered the homeless snakes and bluebirds and offered

Her  laden limb for new nests.

The morning dove, a descendant of Noah, coos a song of peace

On a hillside littered with a wood pile.

Her valley is now home to new butterfly weeds and wild rose blossoms

That dance in resurrected freedom.

Her thistle fields are celebrating from their long taproot drink.

She still greets each morning in dappled light with joy

And every evening she cradles the moon in a canopy with tenderness,

Even when it looked as though her bed was a desolate grave,

She sang the praises of her creator.