Forty Days And One Night

Thank God, man cannot as yet fly, and lay waste the sky as well as the earth! - Thoreau

in a cramped space

caught 'tween a rock and a cloudy place

a schism of reality's seasons

not knowing all the reasons

a desert folds its hands and says grace

as a deluge takes up its arid case

doing an about face

with barely a footprint or trace

flooding harsh verity in an unwinnable race

someplace

a dove with an olive leaf in its silent beak circles and picks up the pace

coming to rest 'pon old sights

vowing forever to only take small bites

as it waits for waters to recede

and evil to concede

so it can land at seemingly new heights

Author's Note

"It may rise this year higher than man has ever known it, and flood the parched uplands; even this may be the eventful year, which will drown out all our muskrats. It was not always dry land where we dwell." - Thoreau