She floods her banks,
Tumbling energetically over levees,
Clumsy tributaries rambling off course,
Knocking over make-shift saw horses
Holding signs that indicate washed out roads.
There are no boulders to punctuate the path,
Which swirls with turbulence and muddied meaning,
Stumbling into dank basements,
Gurgling into unexplored attics.
The ripples blather
Incessantly about damage,
With no film footage to follow.
Flood zones are unmeasured in meters,
With no breaks in the lines
That could lead to the one bridge,
Evacuation route from the sand bar island.
That one beautiful phrase…
Floating in the debris,
Ringing as true as the bell on a channel marker.
Would you hold tight to that beauty?
…at times as imperfect as a poorly written poem.
© M. G. Iannucci 2016
Photo: Good Free Photos
Correct me if I am imperfect in my assessment that this poem might be an example of a triple metaphor.