Looking For a Flashlight

for Ringin of the Bards

The approach to winter solstice
on the wet coast is the realm
of foul storms, edgy commotions
with names, Thanksgiving Day,

December Fourteen, Sank the Bridge.
An ocean of churn blows in the harbor,
three-hundred year trees
flip their wet roots in the air,

constructions seek the ground, flash-bang
the power goes out, the computer shuts down,
the radio is silent, no neighbor lights
define a window, moon and stars

hide behind clouds. This is death,
I pass to an alternate existence,
stumble around in the dark
looking for a flashlight.