Sigrun Susan Lane

The alchemy of water doesn’t change
no matter where it lives.
It fills what it wants,
enters all low things.

The wind can be wicked like that.
Once it blew away half our house.
We lived in the other half, watched
our rooms fly away, screaming as they went.

Rain came after,
bedevilled us for days—
filled the streets up to our knees,
made us dance for it, our shoes on our heads.