When the Rains Came

she sat by the window and watched
the river rise. Her garden drowned;
a tiny chain of lakes covered the grass.

Her mind turned gray as her husband’s
muddy boots or his newspaper
rustling in the cottony mist of his hands.

When the sun returned, she moved
to Montana and whispered to horses.
They whispered back

“Return to the city, with its glowing,
iron heart.”
She found a ladder and an attic

and a broken chest. By then her divorce
came through. She carved her ex’s photos,
glossy bits raining from fingers without rings.

Steve Klepetar

If you have any comments on this poem, Steve Klepetar  would be pleased to hear from you.