Water is almost kind.
Gently it creeps into our homes,
absorbing and assuming form,
barely making it to our shin,
but our beds are on the floor.

It is a passive story we tell.
Water is not conflagration,
which consumes and consumes without spitting back.
Things dry.

Casually we announce we can't sleep in our homes tonight,
while keeping our faces dry, we grieve inside
       for what might drown,
       for things that wash away,
       for things that won't dry the same.
We won't talk about the aftermath stench, dirt, mud and doleful clean up.

We won't make a fuss.

We've done it before.

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