I.
The weekend after the spring snowstorm
that brought down trees with with wind
and weight
we are all at the gas station
filling up our portable tanks
for the generators
before we hit the dollar store
for candlesticks, bottled water, batteries.
The checkout girl tells me
“I made my kids go for a run.”
No candlestick holders, but
a toothbrush holder and some
electrical tape will suffice.
Snow melts and fallen branches
criss-cross roads and trails
and my little chainsaw buzzes.
We all drag chunks of wood up the hill.
II.
It becomes elemental,
fire in the wood stove,
candles for light,
blankets hung across the stairs
to hold the heat in. Bottled water
to drink, river water strained
of most of the baby crayfish
to flush.
Toasting bread, ham, cheese
in the fire, burned to ashes.
Uno cards, flashlights, blankets,
Guinness. The smoke alarm
shrieks in the night –
the banked wood stove groans, smokes.
I stand outside at midnight making sure
the chimney is not in flames,
and the flotilla of stars bob so bright and sharp
in the blackness that
my eyes
sting with wonder,
with grief.
III.
In the morning
there is light, and across the river
a yellow lab trots along
the shore, sniffing and searching
for something that’s passed by
in the night
while his perfect wavy reflection
trots along upside down in the water below him,
never reaching the shore.
At last there is a whistle that I don’t hear,
and the yellow dog bolts home,
the yellow dog disappears
to the underworld
to wait.
Halfway North 