In it’s grip
It’s grip so tight
Hearing ice crack
As limbs fight to stay aloft
In the cruel, bleak night
Sparks shoot into the sky
Wires break, electricity dies.

We wait for help, to understand
A world changed, transformed
Across our little plot of land.
No cell phone works
No lights come on
Except from generators
Throttled up, throttled down.

While chainsaws roar cross the land
We do our best
To clean up, to understand.
~Patrice

© Patrice Clarkson – 2016