It has rained for days,
a drizzle really, nothing threatening,
lacking the dazzle and violence
of a summer storm,
or the long deluge of April,
a rain hardly bothersome, a bit cold
falling for five days, slowly
soaking the ground to overflowing,
melting the winter's snowfall,
until the quiet rain becomes a rush
of water, a torrent built
one misty drop at a time,
overflowing the creeks,
turning the brook beneath your house
into a roaring lion, violent
reminding you of your father's temper,
of the swift turn of friendship to passion,
so rapid you blink
and the riverbank is gone,
the house next to you, gone;
the graceful willows that grew
along the floodline, gone,
and you gaze in fear, wondering
how this slow rain so gentle
became so powerful that nothing survives
except the bridge of a house
you call faith.
Luke 6:48-49 reads:
" He is like a man building a house, who dug down deep and laid the foundation on rock. When a flood came, the torrent struck that house but could not shake it, because it was well built. But the one who hears my words and does not put them into practice is like a man who built a house on the ground without a foundation. The moment the torrent struck that house, it collapsed and its destruction was complete."
The picture was taken in Pawlet earlier this week. You can click on it for a larger version.
Also, I am trying something new, and I hope it works. If it does, and if people like it, I'll start doing more of it. Because part of poetry is the sound of the words, I have recorded this poem into an audio file. If I have done this right, you can listen to this file by clicking here.
Let me know what you think.