The poet’s eye, in fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;
And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen
Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.
Such tricks hath strong imagination,
That if it would but apprehend some joy,
It comprehends some bringer of that joy;
Or in the night, imagining some fear,
How easy is a bush supposed a bear!
It’s a bad time to be a Carolinian, either the Northern or Southern variety. Thankfully, I can write about my neighbors from the advantage of dry ground. My town did flood, but only a little, and that’s subsiding.
The ducks liked it though. They can swim through parking lots.
I like to think God maintains control of the weather, not having given man dominion over it yet (despite conspiracy theories to the contrary). I like it because of all God’s ceded territory, He keeps the thunder, lightening, and floods to Himself. In return, there’s little my neighbors fear more than these divine “accoutrements”; they never fail to inspire, what I hesitate to call, “clannishness” among the rabble.
If only they would lock arms in similar community against the mass of mestizos invading the county, or against the rampant thuggery of our cherished negros, each ready to produce a cherub-faced baby picture should he get arrested. But I’ll never see that. In my town, famous for having donated her church bells to defend Richmond from the Satanist invaders, and whom sent a number of fine intellects to help draft the American constitution, and whose ladies held the first “tea party” (a conservative protest for the rights of noblewomen against the capricious injustice of a tyrant), the venerable spirit has washed away with the flood waters.
And I like to think God punishes those who remove His people’s monuments. I like to think dirty politicians who try to exploit shootings (or who have the villainy to mastermind them) may face God’s judgment in this life, even while there’s no hope of them facing man’s. The brunt of Carolina flooding has landed in Charleston, creating “historic” levels of damage, and maybe it’s because I’m a dreamer, or maybe it’s because I’m a vindictive savage, but I like to see God’s finger in it.
I’m told I’m not supposed to interpret signs and read nature for divine truths, but frankly, I’m comforted in knowing God holds Poseidon’s reins. And I can’t help but think He unleashes them on the worthy.