I remember things washed away,
The line of relentless storms on the screen,
Tornado sirens blaring in an eerie sky.
The Harpeth rose.
All manner of things rushed by in its wake:
An over turned kayak, a picnic table,
An up rooted shed,
Who knows how many uprooted lives.
We fled,
To be stopped at almost every turn
By water over roads,
While Rau Wood washed away
And babbling brooks
Became terrifying things,
And an edge of shame and horror
Was added to my love of storms,
And the shock of it
The unfathomable power of water,
Is still in me
Rekindled by pictures from Colorado,
Knowing when the water comes
There’s not much you can do.
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