Everything Here is New
Soon enough, it will be as if it has always been this way.
Like the Katrina rabbits who appeared after the storm,
hunted by the sauntering bobcat that replaced all the houses.
A pulsing chorus of frogs arose—there’s a body of water here somewhere—
when the body of the world transformed in the hurricane’s fist.
Crawfish homes mound in my yard.
Fire ants escaping the saturated soil can only mound upon themselves.
Howard Thurman’s tree (that is really my tree) spreads its palm,
bestowing grace.
This is what Phyllis Tickle was talking about when she said, “I’m in love with God.”
The palm fronds crimp goodbye.
Sear my heart into this place.
Where has the tomato aspic gone?