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.