Father Rock
prayed on the rooftop
of his storefront church
submerged in the great flood.
The first day’s heat
squeezed him hard.
On the second day
an old friend died
and he floated the body
into the muddy water
where it disappeared in silence,
an oily sheen in its wake.
On the third day
he prayed
while the still waters
retreated slowly,
a defeated army
abandoning the battlefield
bathed in silt and despair.
The storm scoured his soul
leaving only that grounded
deep within his heart,
and eyes that held the burdens
of the living and the dead,
like the rusted skiffs,
riding low in the flood,
searching for water
that would never quench
the thirst.



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