Flood Mud

There’s flood mud on my desk
on the third floor
next to a sprig of lavender
and the white framed picture of our wedding day.
I don’t know how it got there
and something’s kept me from wiping it away.
I suppose I want to remember a bit longer
that the same river that held you
can spit you out and rip everything apart.
That even when you’re healed, stronger…
you’re still a being with a breakable heart.
So we stand by each other, hopeful
though it feels like we might sink;
because flood mud can travel
farther than you think.