were you ever ready for the flood?

we were still wearing knit hats and goulashes when
there was the first reports of the storm.
we were still cooking turtle soup on the
stove top next to the microwave.
we were still waiting for the school bus 
each morning with scarves because
our mother had told us to bundle up
even though it was May.

it was a thick type of cold-- like
refrigerator pizza.

the first one to notice it was the osprey--
he left us a basket of homemade jams
and a note that said "departing"

"departing for where?" my brother asked.

but we both knew he was leaving because
of the flood. next arrived a re-gifted 
cheese and meat platter from the past chirstmas
with a collective note from the song birds
and the opossum explaining another departure.

the gifts became a daily pleasantry--
like a succession of christmas mornings
and dangling christmas eves--
but each day we would pretend like
it was something queer-- even though we knew.

there was a stuffed red teddy bear with
a jar of cookies from the coyotes--
a dying orchid from the rabbit who split the
cost with the hedgehogs.
farewells from worms, from ants, from spiders
came in the form of un seasonal wool socks 
with purple hearts embroidered on them--

and when the turtles left we knew we had to say it
out loud-- and we didn't take any of the
jams or the cheese or even the oatmeal
cookies from the coyotes with us.
we took out hands and we took our knit hats
and goulashes.

and we were never ready for the flood.