Mother Water

Monday, December 14th, 2015

Cypress knees climbed out of her, but now she covers them.

Her floodwaters are slow - she doesn't rush in

but swells, as a woman's breasts, milk-heavy.

 

Her rising tide consumes the deck first

and then the grass. She fills herself on solids,

but still she is empty.

 

She's cloudy with mud swirls. She bulges

with debris and dumps it on land,

only to return and devour it again.

 

Rain falls, and she grows higher

to meet her dripping children,

the ones she has been searching for,

the droplets she would uproot this earth for,

the pieces of herself that she has lost.

Only when they sink back into her womb

does she recede, whole.