Mailbox

Rivers of Ohio rain cascaded
    into March, flooding streams and roads,
        then turned, one evening,

into snow, despite the 36 degrees
    and the way the groundhog,
        one month before, missed his shadow.

So there I was by the road, bending down,
    picking up my mailbox
        knocked down once again

by snow swept into it, the plow's force
    strong enough to push
        a person over, but not really

massive, the favorite word
    that morning as the media described
        the 9.0 quake in Japan, the ensuing

tsunami. The axis of the whole world
    shifted several inches, they told us,
        shortening the day by 1.8 microseconds,

so unlike Joshua's lingering sun.
    And no horns signaled heroic victory.
        No moon refused to rise.

Only the dark storm of radiation
    loomed above like a god gone awry,
        while some kneeled in water, or snow,

begging for a word of explanation.