Not long after the flood,
they put gardens along the street
and let marigolds pretend
nothing had happened.
And the street kept its name
even though it had lost its edges.
The little white house
with the floating Naugahyde sofa
kept the shutters the same blue,
and its little bottom
window showed the same light
that couched forest over fern.
But I go by there and still see
the bent chrome so easy
on the lawn, and I cannot forget
how someone must have sat
in a small square of light believing
it would never enlarge
to the world, floating as it first did
at the ceiling before the sky
And I am glad cement has taken
the place where I did not
dare to sit, the sun so wide on it.
Steven R. Vogel lives in Rochester and is a member of the League of Minnesota Poets. The Post Bulletin publishes poetry by local and area writers every Tuesday. Send poems to Meredith Williams at firstname.lastname@example.org.