Everything That Rises Must Converge

By Robbie Gamble

The thunderheads swelling up the valley.
The brook churning, cresting its banks.
The pond, roiled with rain, spilling into the orchard.
The apple nubs straining at their stems.
The pea shoots twining through garden trellises.
The bread dough at the lip of bowl, pungent and yeasty.
The chorus of peepers in the thickening dusk.
The numbers in my newsfeed: new cases and casualties.
Oh world, you quench me, nurture me, dazzle me, kill me.

Photo by Cindy Bousquet Harris