storm dinner 

i tell you "i am making a plate for the storm."
one of the blue & white dishes. sliced apple.
fresh pasta. three leaves of basil. i smell
my fingers when i'm done picking it
from the stalwart plant on the windowsill. 
ice is falling from the purple sky. i do not know what
we should ask the spirit for. as time goes on
our wants become vaguer. pastel lungs
smudged along a leaking sunset.
i used to be able to pinpoint my yearning.
now, it is like a bruise. thumb placed
in the middle. soft pressure. here is where
the hurt comes from. blood & bumper cars.
one thing i know for sure is that the storm is ravenous.
has come without warning. without a day
of grey skey. has come on the back of 
a snow geese flock. the birds break & fall.
brew a cup of tea. spearmint. watch the steam
pour out into the sky as crystals fall. i step
slowly & carefully. i read posts that say,
"do not doom scroll." what if the doom scrolls you?
digs in your flesh, eager for some kind 
of pot of gold? i take down my hood.
let the ice bathe me. i had imagined going
with you. instead, you said, "will you take it out
for us?" i told you, "i will. i will." 
my phone confesses in my pocket that there are new wars 
& that this country has no more wheels.
that we will have to walk the rest of the way.
my kind has always had to walk. our footprints
with the deer & the wolves & even the rats. 
the storm devours. takes the plate from my hands.
already veiling it in heavy snow. i thank him or her
or it or them for receiving me. for putting
this food on their tongue. i make only one request,
"please, help us eat."