Ice Storm Sacristy

In feeble light before dawn, as others linger in morning dreams, my heart – my thinking, writing, happy heart – extends beyond body and the languages I know. An expanse is there like the Serengeti: golden dry grasses giving in to unencumbered breezes, stretching further than the mind can process. I remember me. I remember you as me. I leave my body behind until the others become a wildebeest or a lioness or a heard of cape buffalo grazing on my amber landscape.

The ice storm bears down. Rain throughout the night now begins to sound like tiny pebbles thrown against the windows. We lose electricity during times like this due to an old electrical grid in a heavily forested area. I prepare food ahead and gather wood and find flashlights and blankets for our guests. L's saxophone quartet is staying this weekend for several gigs they had in the area; most were cancelled due to the pending storm. Instead, they break my heart and make me cry by filling my home with music from another realm.

Greenhouse season begins soon. A new diagnosis threatens to disrupt this winter oasis. Time will tell but I will try. What if I cannot be there? Ice forming on the pine branches gives no answer. My mind turns to the tree damage likely if the wind picks up. I miss the golden blaze from the east bursting through pines and maple and oak leaves. I miss the slant, the warmth on my skin, the smile making a case for deep joy. But in this quiet morning sacristy there is gratefulness. My land is not on fire. I have shelter and family and food. My children are here at the moment, safe and allowing me to cook them breakfast. My husband loves, cares for and respects me. And there is this sliced apple on small white plate, nourishing my thoughts in an ice storm . . . I mean, yes.