Not Exactly Mt. Ararat
June 12 2010


The rain came down hard,
pelting off the windshield,
rattling the roof
like coins in a steel box.
So loud, even talk was impossible.

So we sat,
stranded in mud
ruts filling-up
with cold dark water,
the windows fogged
the engine stalled
the rain almost solid.
A flash flood
that could have turned us evangelical.
Huddling closer, keeping warm
we wondered if the car would float,
the road
wash-out, or hold.

And as quick as it came, it was over,
air steaming
trees dripping
a shaft of pale light.
And a freshening breeze
sweeping the world clean.
The silence
was deafening.

I popped the hood, looking intently
at the baffling mess of machinery
I was hopeless to fix.
So was it the hood
crashing down
that jarred the starter to spark?
Or was it bad humours
leeching out,
like cupping, bleeding
holes drilled into skulls?
Or was it an act of will,
my imploring gaze
shocking
an inanimate object to life?

Whatever it was
the engine caught
the tires gripped
the car eased into motion.
And the soothing thwak-thwak-thwak
of wipers,
peering out
through squeegee-clean glass.
Order restored,
sun, at last.

Ignition
by miracle, mercy, or chance.
And an overwhelmed world
brought back.