elizabethlevett

After the storms

after the devil’s breath

of cold and cleansing wind

after the chill of winter.

After the deluge that felled trees –

trees that have stood over a century,

and more –

trees five feet around

that fell on buildings, took down power lines,

and crushed cars like soda cans.

After the illnesses, after the news,

after the fear and trembling,

and the floods and the exasperation at one more rainy day recess.

We land in our little urban apartment,

our lifeboat.

Like Dorothy landing with a sudden bump

in Oz. Oz, where the windswept and bleak

barren landscape has passed out of vision

and we squint at the unbelievable Technicolor of a new morning.

We turn off the news.

The farmhouse spins down.

The storm subsides.

The new, brand-new, unimaginably new sunshine

reveals weeds to pull,

a riot of cranesbill and oxalis insinuating their way into the violets

after so many weeks of rain.

We put the ruby slippers in their place for dancing later on,

and pull on our jeans and garden gloves.

There’s no place like home.