March 2024
Bio Note: During my life I have lived within easy hurricane distance of the Gulf of Mexico, except for a brief stint in Oregon where I learned I really did not like snow. As a result, I've been through many (many) hurricanes, and each has its own unique ferocity and moments of terror. The aftermath can be as brutal as the storms. This submission reflects my experiences and that of others living in SW Florida during Hurricane Ian in September, 2022.
Hurricane Ian: For Those Falling or Broken
The top of the moringa tree twists
horizontal as if scribbled against
darkening sky by a child’s crayon.
Pine needles hurl against my face
in sharp nicks that tell me to go
inside now, or not ever. Fear
snags the inescapable next breath.
The orchid tree whose blooms fed
hummingbirds cracks. Behind that,
the seventy-foot sweet bay magnolia lists
left in a way she never did before, silver
leaves dropping like tinsel after Christmas
on the wet, sandy soil where her roots
spread near the surface of a loosening grip.
I pray to God for the magnolia’s
safety, beside me, my husband who
believes neither in God nor prayer,
lifts his arms to the tree and asks
her to stand her ground, to not fall,
to not break, her or us. I plead prayers
for the souls of everyone falling or broken.
The wind goes quiet with a soft fade
as if someone slow and aged
carries the soundtrack further east.
We share sweet apples and salty peanuts
by candlelight for breakfast and
give thanks that the sweet bay magnolia
held her roots and did not fall or break.
Deepening fetid flood waters host rot
and mosquito larvae multiplying in the
misery of Florida’s long recovery while trees
who still stand offer shade. As a hummingbird
feeds from buds on a downed firebush,
I plead a mantra of prayers for
everything and everyone falling or broken.
Originally published in Topical Poetry
Gifts in the Misery of the Aftermath
Garbage swirls around broken people and
lost, bewildered pets while cadaver dogs
prowl mounds of wood and concrete bent to
waste by hurling winds and storm surge. Newly
homeless people crowded into shelters,
feeling the roughness of unfamiliar pallets
hard against their skin, are warned that they
must leave though they have nowhere to go.
Across the globe, Russians continue
killing Ukrainians, but here
in Florida our focus narrows—
How do we find our missing
mother? Where can we get fresh water?
Find food which tastes clean
on our sore tongues? Shower off this itch and
stink? Is it safe to flush a toilet?
Inland, farmers search for lost horses in
swamped pastures and count dead cows flung
into ditches by river currents broken
free of levees in two feet of rain.
Someone’s pink umbrella floats by
in flood waters spun off a Gulf beach once
seemingly benign and filled with summer kids
splashing in waves not yet turned violent.
In all this cursed misery of aftermath
still strange gifts are bestowed—the neighbor
who never spoke to us arriving with chainsaw
to clear the cracked tree sloping over our porch;
hummingbirds unharmed returning to feed;
the perfect stranger who hands clean water,
tangerines, and $50 to an elderly man
crying inside his car that won’t start.
Then this, a woman finds her lost
wedding ring she feared was as
gone as the Gulf coast island homes.
She places the ring, retrieved from a pile of
brush and tree limbs, on her finger
soiled by the grime of recovery. She rests,
sitting on the curb, and prays to God, giving
thanks for what she sees as a sign of hope.
Originally published in New Verse News
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