Christmas 2020

There was water. 
We met outside, doing our part 
to stop the spread, 
two hours from our house 
and two hours from theirs: 
built a fire in the grate 
next to the picnic shelter
at the Thurston County public park
under the leaky canopy 
we brought ourselves;
and the water--
beating on the shelter roof, 
puddling on the paths, 
pooling in the saggy canopy
until it filled and splashed out all at once
like a bucket at a water park,
sheeting a sudden wall of water
between the picnic tables
and the makeshift hot dog kitchen, 
and after lunch, when we walked 
to the beach, 
dripped down our necks,
soaked the fronts of our pants,
liquified the path under our sodden feet,
rushed down the hill in rivulets
making a vast swamp 
that flooded the beach
leaving only a strip of sand
between flood water and salt water
—even all that water,
though it made our visit so brief 
(and so wet), 
just long enough to scarf sausages, 
exchange gifts, 
scuttle to the Sound,
and jump back into our cars
for the two hour return journey
through the darkening mist,
could not drown the joy
of seeing each other again. ​