Gris-Gris, an online journal of literature, culture & the arts
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Standing Water in the Yard on the Feast Day of Saint Medard

by Darrell Bourque


We feared the rain would never come

and then it came without relief.

The clouds thickened and knitted

themselves over windows and doors.

It was as if they wanted to come in,

to be with us.


We pulled books off the shelves

we thought we might never read.

We spent hours on end in bed,

eyes straining to keep the print

discernible as light drained slowly

from the rooms and we struggled

to stay with the narrative.


There were no gardens to clarify.

There were no ditches to clean.

There were no little jobs inside

that we had not already done.

We had only to make our peace

with what we sought,

with what came to us,

with what would not leave.