The Quelling

In the eye of it

She belongs to it

This morning she is beckoned to the quiet edge of it

On her way to the shore, she slips on a rock

She sits on a thistle

She switches to a stump

She hugs a cottonwood for 53 minutes

Despite intervention, the floods will come

Arms outstretched, she pleads with the sun

To release its hold, to hasten its set

For this moon to rise,

whole and familiar

—Jodi Vander Molen


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