The official document called it an Act of God
Which says a lot to our relationship with the divine
My white walls becoming black
My black sofa growing a shade of grey
I’m reminded that yin yang means balance
Nature mingling with where I once nurtured myself
Drafting and dripping in through a gaping, draping ceiling
I come close to understanding how Job must have felt
And balanced is the farthest from how I feel
I feel the scales tipping over against my favor
Wind, rain, and mold have won this battle
Leaving the victims
Myself and the oak that sits at 28 degrees
Her canopy a makeshift thatched-roof that keeps out the sun and nothing else
I no longer understand the phrase “to storm out”
All that was sudden has been my adrenaline
Six days of warning
Four days of road closure
Nine days of waiting
I wish money would storm out on me with such sluggish notice
But the storm is still here
The only one out is me
And the oak, still struggling to nestle it’s way more fully into my home
But both have a signed death warrant
And I have nothing, save my health
But you can’t live in your health
Nor store your books atop it
Nor hang your coat upon it
This is not the act of God I prayed for