Thinking of all our dear ones on the east coast. What an unbelievable mess.

Prelude


You feel it coming.
You feel it like a strange breath on the back of your neck.
It yellows the air.
It shivers the scrolled sycamore leaves.
It moves through the bay
And takes on its scent.
It brushes the old cottonwood and she sways
Like a drunkard waltzing at last call.
It rattles the bared bones of the poison oak
With all her seductive scarlet flounces
Around her ankles.

It stalks you from the grass.

You feel it before it gets here
And you aren't the only one--
The squirrels quit their herky jerky business,
The puddleducks make for the reeds.
The bees are gone.

You can smell it coming--
Something ripe and fecund and rusty.
Something cold and dark and certain as stone.
It's beyond the hills,
But it's coming.

Bring your dry wood to the hearth--
And all the little strengths hard won.
Chink the cracks in your courage.
Gather in all those tender mercies.
Catalog your blessings
And all those little kindnesses gleaned
From other men's fields.
Take stock.
Stack these on the shelves.
Fill the pantry with memories
Bottled fresh and green, 
Preserved with parafin to keep their color.
Save even those fragile, ancient ones--
Delights pressed and brittled between newsprint.
Collect what faith you have around you
Like flannel blankets.
Call the children.
Find the cat.
Because it's almost here.