0005 Natural Disasters
Poem By Lori Boulard
The house is solid, so far surviving
fire, flood, earthquake and mud.
Half beam, half stucco, stress cracks
show like wrinkles in its skin,
gathering in corners and spreading
in fine lines across the surface,
but going no deeper.
We live a good life here,
hanging small victories
in frames on sturdy walls.
I believe our buildings will outlast us,
that our great felling blow
will start small, and with us, igniting
like a match in a mouse hole.
What is, after all, a natural disaster?
We know some day our reckoning
will come, just not which, or why,
or by whom.