River Rising
April, the river rose,
spilling over its banks.
It brought up with it sticks
and cigarette butts, packing peanuts,
memories and mud mixing in dark
pools around our home.
The begonias in the backyard
drowned. A mattress
floated on the surface, bumping up
against the oak trees.
Black waters lapping at our door,
we retreated inside as the it demanded
to be let in. When it left, it left
behind the dead wet earth.
There is still a watermark on our house
where the river rose
then stopped.