Each day the forecast says rain.
I sit on the edge of my bed with one leg outstretched—
Zip up high boots and go out in the dry,
Each night my galleon pillow tosses between trembling hands
In the stormy seas of our watershed weeping:
The end of all flesh has now come!
Let the world we have made be undone!
Remorseful, resigned until morning comes
Lift up the latch; let in the light
Welcome the dove with this olive branch offered:
Those who were saved came in two
by me, too.