the years don't wash

The years don't wash
away so much as swoosh,
like water in the family tub,
when influenced by the shifting
of conflicting planetary plates
(earth by waves inflicting).

At times the years lap up
against our face as gentle
memories; sometimes as traces
of darker days returned from deeper places;
a tsunami to assault the village of
our maturity.

But on many days the laughter
of a child is heard, who after
violent protests of cleanliness,
relents to the humiliation of the bath,
and makes the action of his or her
own earthquake with big splashes,
to the giggled admonishments
of moms and dads recalling
their own childhood passions.

Then, time seems to ride the waves
of our own making: we lord
over sea battles, and sailing boats.
And God? Content to save
the quaking of the continents,
while we with soap repent, and the host
attends to raise our village up on posts.