Late afternoon during a December storm,
the lights go out. I picture a cold night
and feel anew for tornado victims,
for refugees, for the unhoused, for ancestors
who survived even under starless skies.

Still, I find this evening of roughing it
romantic—candles lit, flashlights nearby.

My husband lights the stove with a match,
poaches the salmon, sets the table, opens
wine, and together, we dine. In the dark,
young again, we plan to go to bed and warm
each other—but then the lights go on.

My husband turns on Monday night
football, and I clean the kitchen.


© by Jeanie Greensfelder.
Used with the author’s permission.