Not long after the flood,

they put gardens along the street

and let marigolds pretend

nothing had happened.

And the street kept its name

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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

fell open.

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