This is the land the storms flooded—
drowned out people whose home it once was.
I am complicit here:
my own kin trod those bluegrass hills,
surveyed their expanse, cleared a swampy path.
The waters have receded, so they say,
nearly washing clear this history.
Today, we welcome a seventy-fifth
World Refugee Day.
Yet why do I still feel the wet tears?
A rising tide, for all those they drove away?
“Until Everyone Is Safe” echoes.
I see today’s news—
the echo fades—
a nation of a quiet flood remains.