(for Peggy Price-Hartz in Aiken, South Carolina)

I don’t know why you had to leave sunny Spain,
but I imagine that now, sitting in the dark
after a hurricane has whooshed through
your part of the world, you must be
longing for the azure waters and skies
of the Mediterranean.

You texted some of your beloveds that
you’re fine, though you, like millions
of others, are without electricity.
You said that you have what you need.
That neighbors with generators
have charged your devices, allowing
communication with the greater world.
There is, you add, the worrisome
concern about the large tree in
the backyard, but mostly, all is OK.

And I imagine that all over Aiken,
as in so many other places lying
prostrate after Helene did her worst,
you are all deep in aftermath. Flooding.
People killed by falling trees.
Cleanup has barely begun.

Not much you can do but wait—
with your single propane burner,
you can’t even cook for folks,
as you love to do.

Still, you’re getting words out into
the ether that make their way to us.
Your last transmission from the dark
said that you were sitting on your porch
looking up at the night sky.

So, trying to guess what your sky
must hold, I step outside to take in
the dark of my well-lit city that used
to be yours, too bright to see stars,
much farther north than your corner
of the planet.

But I’m drinking in starlight
at the same time as you, my friend,
wishing you daylight’s return,
grateful that your sun
will rise before mine.