I instinctively pull the chain
During the power outage
Because it hasn’t sunk in,
No juice for the light,
Or the lifeless laptop.
I struggle with the weight of pen on paper,
Writing words by hand when I rarely write checks.
Candles and oil lamps in the back of my mind long ago
When snow storms took down power lines
In the country of my youth.
But this is 2021 where wildfires,
Drought and high winds strike terror
More than I ever saw on a snow day.
Without music in the dim light I struggle
With the weight of pen on paper.
How can I be expected to write poetry
In this eerie calm?
(There was a 5-hour power outage in Sacramento yesterday–high winds. )
67Steffen.com 
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