Earth Hour

by Dee Allen

Desert with mountains in the distance

MARCH 26, 2022—8:30pm to 9:30pm PT

On this Saturday evening,
I take a break
From electricity.

Decisive move,
Hand to wall switch.
Lights off. Candles on.

Lit match to a few candle wicks.
Shadows on walls and ceiling shimmy,
Dance to flame’s spontaneous rhythm.

Dimly lit
Comfort zone, filled with
Comfort food on a plate, all plant-based,

Black bean burgers on sourdough with
Spicy brown mustard, pickles,
French fries on the side, sea salt-seasoned,

Pineapple juice, ice-cold, in
A glass mug to wash down my
Cruelty-free repast. Purple grapes—saved for later.

My eyes took on a feast of their own:
Documentary on YouTube
On Chernobyl—Nuclear disaster area

Or ecological miracle?
Village rewilds despite slow decay.
Menagerie of animals roam free—humans long gone.

Ten minutes left.
Like last time,
Meditate. Brown eyes shut. Bald Black head lowered.

Drawn deep breaths. In. Out. In. Out.
Thoughts set on her,
Our endangered Earth—

Flash floods on the Gulf Coast,
Typhoons in the Philippines,
American Southwest dry to the extreme,

The Amazon and California burn in the Summer—
Thoughts set on everything
We could lose—

On this Saturday evening,
I take a break
From electricity.

Transient time to reflect on my only home.
Redemption from neglect, though, takes more than 60 minutes.
Lights off. Candles on.

Category: Featured, Poetry