It was so lovely, the home
I built in the arroyo,
such smooth golden plaster
I worked with my hands,
such luster in the wood.
I had been told, of course,
about the chance of flood. Perhaps
some part of me felt relief
when the current finally came—
first a hum, then a roar,
then the splintering din,
and then only vehement rush.
What does the soul want, really,
but to join with the wild flood?
Regret can only tread for so long;
this now is what life wants.
An uprooted tree, a hand carved beam—
both serve as well for a float.
Now whatever the water says,
that is where I go.