Storm

I burn all the candles in the house.
 
It has been seventy-two hours without power.
The one generator keeps water in the barn thawed
for the horses. In the house, the dogs and I sleep 
near the woodstove, our only 
light from candles. 

Ten degrees outside, the wind 
tears the stocking cap off my head, 
overturns the grill, and throws 
the canoe against the pasture fence. 

I do not hear the dozen trees that crash
down around our house; so loud is the
roaring wind. 

I burn the Advent candles, all at once
burn them down to red puddles 
of wax. Their glow has become 
more than holiday remembrance, 
more than symbols of
Hope, Peace, Joy, Love. 
The candles are meeting a real and present 
need for light. 

I watch the flame, glance at the flicker in
the woodstove. The sunlight that trees
absorb in their lifetimes releases again
when the wood is burned. I feel the warmth. 
Where does fire come from?
Where does it go?  Where are you, my Love?

This is the season of firsts without you. 
First Thanksgiving. First Christmas. First wind storm. 
Remember how we sat under blankets 
in the dark, waiting for lights
to come on? How we talked about vacationing 
somewhere warm? Mad at the wind, your creative
incantations of cussing made me laugh.  

Now the cussing is mine, getting up
at 3 a.m. to feed gas into the generator
and check the oil while it is
still running. Hot oil sprays out as I fumble
to shut off the smoking beast. 

The dogs’ noses quiver at the petroleum
scent of my mistake on clothes and hair. 
We curl back up around the fire 
waiting for daylight,
waiting for you.