Noah, Jonah, and Myself

If I asked Noah
If rain makes the flowers grow
With the bodies of his neighbors,
Of the human race, still afloat
Would he wax poetical?
Would he grieve, or scream,
Or curl up under the monotony
Of the constant streams
In a mixture of confused gratitude
And fetal defeat?
Was his faith and vindication
Enough to make the rain taste sweet?
So many placed inside,
In his care, to tend-
Buffeted and isolated from without,
Limited and exhausted within-
Trapped in an ark,
The only way to stay alive,
Is no place to raise a family,
No place to build a life.

But later, when the floods receded
And the land turned green again
Lush with fertility, and safe
From the violence of godless men
Did the water wash away
The curses and the spilled blood?
Were the bones ever exhumed
From their graves of mud?
If I asked Noah then,
With his grandchildren at play
Around his feet, plenty to eat,
Plenty of room to splay,
No more mockery and injury,
No more toiling with hardened hearts
Nor tarrying in hope
With the very ones who tore him apart
But family existing in unity,
Lifting voices in praise and feast
To multiply and cultivate
In abundance and peace

If the death the rain delivered,
And the life that erupted in its wake
Was worth the years of struggle:
The work, the loneliness, the heartbreak;

Would he respond with a low, breathy chuckle?