Covenantial

More rain. Noah’s rain.
The yard fills
and a river ripples
where grass weaved
in once dry
winds. A new deluge.
A new end of creation.
When the clouds
have cleared, no
dove flies, except two
mourning doves
loosed from the ground
below the bird feeders.
No
rainbow arcs
across sunlit sky.
No covenant is
written in new God’s
spell. But
there are two of us,
three cats,
a house that seems still
seaworthy.
And if God smiles in
the soaked lawn, reflecting
like sunlight
from a lake
where grass weaved
in a once dry
wind, who
am I to doubt
that some faith
has been restored,
some balance
kept, some
momentousness
raised like a lost
son into the heavens.
It may look very like
a cloud.
It may feel very like
the breath
of the divine, drying
our small and grassy
Ararat.

Published in The Huirricane Review (2008) with rights reverting to the author