Posts Tagged ‘mudslide’

After shoveling
and raking and
scraping and
pitch forking
and transporting
and scrubbing
and scratching
mud from the ground,
at last looking up
to find a weed
in the grass
where the mudslide
didn’t pass.
Letting it stay.

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Standing beneath the plum tree
picking ripe plums with my friend
and my daughter, the air thick
with the guarantee of rain,
I am certain of the goodness of life.
Pulling the fruits to my lips,
sticky juice spills down my chin,
and the golden flesh turns to sweet hum
in my mouth. There are times I forget.
Times when betrayal, loss and fear
flood through me thick and indifferent
as the mudslide that slurred
through the yard later tonight
leaving piles of rubble and sludge.
This is why, today while picking plums,
when they rain down on us like
tiny purple proofs of glorious abundance,
I dog ear the moment, try to cache
just how it feels to be so convinced
of life’s benevolence, of grace.


By the way, friends, we’re fine. The house is fine. But man, what a giant mess! The yard is a disaster, in some places feet of mud, branches, root balls, rocks. My husband luckily has a tractor and he plowed out our drive–wholly moly, but it will be a long time before the massive clean up is done. 

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            November 8, 2016



When you see the clouds

and you know the gray

is the shade of gray

that ends in a mudslide,

and then comes the rain

you knew would come,

stiff rain and merciless.

But this is not about

the wall of mud that eventually

finds every room of your house.

This is about

the way you have plenty of time

to put on your boots

and grab your shovel

and your hat and your coat

and stand out in the rain

before there is any sign of mud

creeping down the hills,

that interval while the destruction

is still just an idea,

the inside of your home

still clean, still dry.

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