Saturated Ground
poem
The phone rang twice Saturday,
Mother Marsh, an old black
Nun I’ve helped, and Jerene.
Sunday, the phone napped.
This morning, well before 7,
A friend, R. The day previous
She’s seen a Superbowl ad
About children lost too early.
When five years ago I told R.
About Erin, she erupted
In a wail of pure grief.
I told R. my eyes had seeped
All weekend, not weeping,
Just emotions surfacing
Like water in saturated ground.
12/14
© slovitt 2023
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