Before the Storm

We batten down,

shelter in place,

eat what might be

our last hot meal

for a time,

full comfort stomachs

before the winds arrive.

We test batteries,

line the mantle,

two flashlights,

a lantern

one fat candle

on a crystal base.

Outside,

our spotlight hits
a float of snow,

updrafts foretelling
a sideways gale,

the ocean
gnawing hollows

where map-lines
used to be.

We know

electronics will ping

as electricity goes,

that we’ll wrap ourselves

in blanket-capes,

inch closer
to an auburn fire.

During the closed-off night,

winds will flay the high-top pines.

We’ll wince at a crack
somewhere close,

register the thump
in our chests

as a hundred-year oak

loses its footings,

peer out 

to see nothing,

the swirl of storm

wailing outside,

but bleeding in,

reminding us

our lack of power

has nothing at all to do

with an absence of light.

All is well here.  We didn't even lose power during this one, but that doesn't mean I didn't worry.  Whenever I yearn to live closer to the ocean, photos like this, change my mind: Boston Globe