Under my house, a river winds
Creeping, sleeping through the winter
And thawing as the summer burns
And searches for eyes to blind.
The steam begins to rise and simmer
Into my kitchen up above
My father doesn’t recognize
The silent whisper of the river.
With kinks and turns,
It cracks the foundation
Of my basement
My mother learns
Of the river’s presence, its path in the mud
She thought she’d set a dam there long ago
Yet here it was,
Ready to flood.
Poetry
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