Kažkas tarp Ventės ir Havajų...

Nors dabar ir ne potvynių sezonas, tačiau juntamas lengvas nepikto ir vėsaus vandens apsėmimas...  Just for my Friday mood. :)

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You tell her you are done with this farm, 
with the old tractors rusting in the timber, 
the flood lines etched on the tin shed.
You remember how each flood
crept to the steps of the porch
as the levy tore— 
the floating picnic table,
tying the boat to the flag pole.

The way houses become islands
is routine for you.



You can no longer count 
the number of buoys anchored
near your garage door.

She speaks of the lives of trees,
braced in their early years 
with tarnished rods, how slowly
they seem to grow, how suddenly
they shade what was once
open space.

When you look at her hands,
you think of water receding,
all the cracked mud.
These acres are concrete slabs,
the river but bristles on a broom,
sweeping away all the seeds.

When you look at her hands,
you think of piles of things after,
in buckets and truck beds,
the way everyone stopped to look. 

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