More Rain than the Earth Could Accept
(Ode to Camp Mystic)

Pushing, pulsing,
flowing like all free rivers,
but now transforming, primal,
to something unrecognizable,
transient and soulless, profane.

Intrusive, moving, stealing.
Barriers silently cracking, yielding,
to forces devoid of feeling,
concealing tears and screams,
mixing in the muddy stream.

Tiny hands grasp plush animals,
crying, pleading, for parents.
None of these babies, this horror deserving.
Waters, inky black as the end of me.
Pulled under in the torrent’s swirling.

Precious futures and loves,
innocence left unprotected,
transported lifeless, limp, pale,
woven into tangled piles
of twisted branches

By John W. Pearson