Storm light
A twist in the storm mid-phase felled our power.
We all trickled like drops of watercolor paint through the house that afternoon,
Sensing the light sharding from rooms and dissolving
Into a humid, leaf-strewn landscape.
We began to ration each joule from our cell phones, our refrigerator, our laptops—
Till a single beam would strike like a sword through the halls.
Now decisions crowded in on us.
When should we phone to assure a relative we were safe?
When pollute our sanctuary of silence by tuning to a news report?
How much time to expend on searching for the scallions?
By now the only light encoiled like gold dust in barren wadis.
Whenever we could not justify the generation of light,
We stood with heads bowed,
Exchanging words in the darkness shared by whistling maples and drumming rain.
In those burdened moments I learned why we praise the evening for its
approach,
Because only then
A single candle bears a tale.
Ultimately the storm dropped us
Like a sodden rag
To visit more westerly valleys,
And we emerged into a sunshine so vibrant
It seemed to drench our world.
Andy Oram
July 29, 2025
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