Landslide

The earth moved.

This was not a metaphor:

my rock became a river,

my home, my trees, my life

uprooted.

I’ve lived through storms

that peeled the paint

right off the barn.

 

But this was

a different storm.

 

The dark water rose

as it always does:

slowly, and then all at once.

 

I can struggle to move

a single pile of firewood

from my driveway

to the shed—

a day’s work at best,

 

so, I watched with horror,

and perhaps awe,

as rushing water washed

an entire forest

a mile down the road

before I could even

utter a single word.

 

How can something

so slow be so sudden?

How can I have faith

in the ground

beneath my feet?

 

The earth moved

and I am still here

surrounded by debris.

I didn’t expect to see

so much sky—

the brightness is so big

it frightens me

and I hesitate to admit,

even to myself,

that the light is beautiful.

© 2024 Gretchen L. Schmelzer, PhD