the Flood, otherwise Reclamation

just a lil somethin somethin

I often imagine the flooding

of this parched valley;

building a boat with tools

from my bible belt, cat calling

a few friends to rest dry,

to float past copper tops

of before, gone green.

To kiss gingerly the cross on mountain.
To weave finger tips through blue sky,
mantle over the new lake,
all the culture sleeping silently
in it's bed of beneath.

All the girls in their red lipstick
corroded, the birds casting covenant
above cauldron here, in which the tonics
of the world renewed are stirred by the breath
of our futures, and prospectors for the gold
in the ground of the good.

God Damn! I yell,
to be cooked by the look of the sun,
to be dressed and dwell damp in the shade
of the untouched evergreens,
on the mountains safe from wet.

Blood boils softly here,
and the songs of our youth become
the sex cries of the winged things,
fluffing feathers and connecting
to create the songs for the children
to forge rituals from.

Yes, here we have a camp
and years of our hopefulness
woven into the clothes to be worn
proud in the cold days of alone
projected, read as Latin by
the elders, who connect the stars
to their pores and seep to eternity,
their own skin to be the grounds
of the reclaimed leather,
to then be absorbed into that nascent river,
to become what we err to embrace,
to become the wisdom of the wet to sustain
for a little, and shrivel the leather,
to reclaim what is ours, and theirs
and His.