After the Storm
Soft yellow-gray light of early morning,
Butter and wool
The two bedroom windows
Still beaded and streaked with rain.
The world calm again, routine with traffic,
After its night of convulsions,
When storm drains closed at the throat,
And trees shook in the wind like the hair of dryads.
In the silent house, its roof still on,
Too early for the heat to come whistling up
And the guest room still closed,
I am propped upon these pillows.
A gray moth-eaten cashmere jersey
Wrapped around my neck
Against the unbroken cold of last night.
I am thinking about the dinner party.
The long table, dark bottles of wine,
The odd duck and brussels sprouts,
And how, after midnight,
With all of us sprawled on the couch and floor.
The power suddenly went out
Leaving us to feel our way around
In the tenth-century darkness
Until we found and lit a stash of candles.
Copyright © Roger Hadden | Year Posted 2014
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