By: Cynthia Pitman

Based on true events

i.

Raindrops wrinkle the river.
Soft waves gently slap
the sand where I stand.
The trees around me
whisper in the gentle breeze
that will soon grow
into a wild wind.
I stare across the expanse.
A lone boat heads home.
The quiet trembles.

 
ii.

The rain is falling harder now.
A steady pounding on the ground
by water-swollen pellets
sounds like bullets
pouring down on us.
I stand in the screened porch
and look out
while being sprayed by mist.
The raindrops hitting the river
make the water look
as if it’s boiling.
The palm trees bend
from the growing wind
and some of them are beginning
to drop their fronds.
The slate gray of the sky
emits a low rumble,
and the ground has turned
to mud and mush.
Standing here, trapped by fear,
it seems as if the sun
has never shined
and never again will.
Knowing what is coming,
I realize things are going
to get very worse, very fast.
I lock the screen door,
as if that will help.
I know I must go in –
I hear the baby crying –
but I can’t break the grip
of this scene.
I can only stand still
and stare.
 
iii.
lights flicker total darkness hold tight to the baby hold tight to the baby pounding rain flashing lightening howling wind crashing thud felled tree hold tight to the baby hush little baby house shaking floor tilting grinding flood water seeping in hush little baby mommy’s here rush of the flood rattling windows shattering glass hold tight to the baby please God help us hold tight to the baby please God please God

 
iv.
Houses that once stood
high on the mountain, tall and proud,
are splintered and smothered
by mudslides now,
their contents swept downstream
by the flooding brown water
to form makeshift dams,
life’s treasures now but mere debris.
Age-old trees were nothing
but playthings, uprooted and smashed
into whatever was in their path.
Twisted train tracks stab the embankments.
Bridges are washed away by the floods,
taking cars and trucks with them.
Roads are gouged and eroded,
yawning gaps carved into the hills
in their place.
Downed powerlines drape across the ground,
some sparking, most dead.
Rescuers, gripped by fear,
shocked by the devastation,
plead to the TV cameras for more help.
Reporters shake
as they hold microphones
to survivors who, dull-eyed,
tell horror stories
in traumatized monotones:
The house was in the rushing water.
A rescuer was at the window,
taking the baby from the mother.
When he turned to help the mother,
the water swept the house away.
The mother was lost.

 
v.
This hurricane was indifferent
toward those living inland
in the Florida peninsula.
She barely deigned to show
her tailwinds’ brushstrokes:
the gray glaring sky,
the black trees, mere silhouettes,
with their tangled swaying branches
and dark, dripping moss,
rain not really falling
as much as gathering in the air,
a smattering of water on the ground
reflecting the sky’s glare.
She saved her real power to show
to those on the Gulf of Mexico coastline
and to those in the
Appalachian mountains beyond.
She took her sweet time
tearing roofs off of houses,
smashing what was left
into giant toothpicks,
uprooting trees,
crashing cars,
flooding towns,
downing power lines.
Those who survived
trudged through sludge and chaos,
searching helplessly for those who didn’t,
while those who lived
in the inland peninsula
yawned and stretched,
enjoyed a cup of hot coffee,
then swept the leaves from the porch.
 
vi.
Sweet sunshine soothes
the sand made mud,
turning the sludge into
soft grit again.
It drinks the water
into the air
and transforms it
into cotton-ball clouds.
Gently, it pats dry
the green of the grass
and beckons the flowers
to unbow their stems
and gaze up again.
The blue sky,
shedding its fear,
creeps out from hiding
and restores its embrace
of the land.
The sun’s dominion over the earth
is now steady.
The birds rejoice.