River Rising

River Rising

I am the roof of the world in my mind,
sheltering life in a home on the bank.
Holding within me the rooms of my life,

holding the likes of trapped space and time.
Rooms of wishes and thoughts forgotten,
hallways to bedrooms of fears and forgiving.

Walls will make rooms with the lines in my mind.
Yet what if a flood could come rolling on through?
Rolling on the raising that raining can do.

The river is rising, a lake of hot rain,
dropping from heaven, on homes on the bank.
Boundaries of rooms hold space and forgiveness.

High up on stilts, the home stands so proud.
Up off the river, on the bank by the stream.
Up where the river runs rarely at all.

High up on stilts, yet the river is rising
higher and higher, to wash through the rooms,
while the rain keeps on raining, and reigning on too.

Those things forgotten, muddy the water,
and the river rises, and washes them through.
Erasing those lines, while the space and the time

mixes

and becomes one—
and all the wishes—
dissolve in the sun.

The river is rising, drops of hot rain,
falling from heaven,
landing in pain.