Poetry Porch: Poetry

 

Yes, itís true the storm has passed
By Marge Piercy

The highway has been cleared,
almost polished like a kitchen
floor after cleaners have gone.

But along many winding little
streets, at the end of sand roads,
back in the pine and oak woods

where deer huddle together
on trampled snow and nibble
needles, people are stuck hard

in their houses. Maybe theyíve
shoveled as far as muscles permit.
But the plow hasnít come there

and the electric company has put
them far down on the repair list
so itís dark, itís candle time.

Itís melting snow and wearing
so many layers they canít lean
over. Itís praying the propane

doesnít run out. Itís drag more
wet logs in and hope the fire
catches. No more milk, raccoons

have got into the meat placed
in a cooler outside in the biggest
drift to keep from spoiling.

Itís back to primitive grim days,
nights of ancestral fear ruled by
coywolves and great horned owls.


Copyright © 2015 by Marge Piercy.