I have sympathy for antediluvian people,
mockers before the flood,
long scratches in dirt where trees were dragged,
logs trimmed behind the mud baked house.
sawdust thick on Noah’s windowsills.
I used to think them fools, Noah’s neighbors,
blind to the evidence that catastrophe was coming.
unwilling to see dark clouds rising in the east,
to notice the wind-shift westward.
They watched with mirthful derision as the keel was laid,
the ribs framed up and out to mount the hull,
cedar plank decks, massive rudder, sturdy stern and prow.
“How are you getting that monstrosity to the sea?”
his snickering neighbors asked.
paralyzing comfort
business as usual
things as they are
the status quo
“I’m not,” answered Noah. “The sea is coming to me.”
2015