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 2020
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