In April
Father swung open the door
and the light bore through
as did the flood,
the same water that dripped
from his hair.
The water where fish once swarmed
had long overflowed during the storm
and rose as it had torn
through houses, lives.
“The water keeps gettin’ deeper.”
He walks inside, straight to the kitchen,
goes back out with a bowl.
He frantically scoops the flood waters
back into the lake's bank.
In July
Father swung open the door
and the light bore through
as did dust,
the same grime that sat
under his fingernails.
The soil he once plowed
had long dried out
and blew away in clouds
of warm brown wind.
“The sun keeps gettin’ hotter.”
He walks inside, straight to the basement
resurfaces with his rifle.
He frantically shoots at the sun with his gun.
