The Flood – KensView

At the top of the stairs with eyes wide and bright,
A five-year-old was standing one storm-racked night.
The house was in havoc, the weather thick with rain,
As his father moved sprightly with purpose and strain.

His father, so strong, lifted heavy and high,
Sloshing through dark floodwaters up to his thigh.
The water was gushing, the basement a sea;
Furniture floated like ships sailing free.

The boy hung from the railing with his tiny hand,
Not knowing the peril into which he could land.
To him, it was just play, not a parent’s great fight
To save what he could from a tempest’s cruel bite.

Unconcerned by the jeopardy below
Where wires were exposed and current could flow,
His Dad hauled out boxes, tools, and a chair
Trying to rescue the most from down there.

With big grunts and splashes, he hauled things away,
As the thunder rumbled, all in disarray.
But the boy wasn’t concerned, not then, not at all;
He was lost in the wonder of that great rain squall.

The flood receded, and though the house did dry,
They soon after would look for a better lie—
Not in lowland where water can get through
But to higher ground to start things anew.

Now that boy carried on with life as children do,
And his father never spoke of that big miscue;
But later when he’d grown he came to realize
That that could’ve ended with a big bad surprise.