Gentle rain-washing down sliding roads,
Building volume reigning down gravity,
Swirling torrents crisscrossing caked mud,
Rushing water-flooding closed manholes,
Ankle-knee-waist deep climbing bath.

California mud slides moving mother earth,
Covering roads into isolated small towns.
Closing paving trails isolating Port Costa,
Commuting sea, mobile moving mudflows,
Commercial island reliving bygone eras.

Showering winds whipped so damn damp.
The chill creaks bones to shivering depth.
Homes quake upon arthritic painted joints,
Ghostly moaning of haunting wood voices,
Screaming sounds awaking, a town asleep.

Cracks opening up, dripping waterfall stairs,
Water drops tears draining molding years.
Rushing townspeople damning downpour,
Small town sprits dead ‘n those much alive,
Restoring the luster of Port Costa’s charm.

Note: There is so much spirit that even the dead share in its literal charm.

D.Lester 01/03/06 ©
Terminated poet, somewhere in America not on company time.
davelyoung1.hotmail.com poem for the ride upon America’s spirit