I have never seen so many herons
fluttering like paper,
along this cradle of paradise,
the great gulf ocean of melted blue.
And towns glittering on a bracelet
of beaches,
shrimp boats, sturdy ships
of labor and love of waves.
My family remembers these places
from May.
People crowding the pinata
of New Orleans.
The artery of the Mississippi
spreading its veins into the sea.
This part of earth,
of lusty nights,
of fearless gamblers,
the girlfriends of the sun.
The old, hearing themselves
in the cascading swells
of apricot evenings.
How grand this summer was!
Drier in Ohio than usual.
The early pulse of fall.
Children returning to school,
early this year, for outings later
on the sand.
Shores waiting for travelers
from the barrenness of the winter.
There are names for catastrophe.
How beautiful Katrina is.
How flowing the dress of its sound.
A storm to the south.
A weaving circle of clouds.
Night air and the sound of thunder.
Far away. Far away.
Katrina stirs, stretching her arms.
Her tresses streaked with lightning.
A tiger cub.
A life so short it will not remember childhood.
We do not remember life like this.
Walking in the French Quarter.
Eating cotton candy.
Sipping wine and partying.
But pinatas break,
and Katrina took its stick
and swung,
and the celebration of life
was shattered.
The bracelet torn apart.
The child of destruction roared,
and then,
only spaces.
Flood of biblical proportion,
weeping and despair.
The party over.
An aftermath of ruin,
blood,
and life pushed out of Paradise.