Hurricane Charlie

I cannot describe the 
smell after a storm:
his latent, lingering,
loss, missing his eye.
I invite him to stay,
to sit, have tea,
tell me stories of earth
of ozone, or ask 
him to air out the smell of 
old books, a little damp,
from my room.
We sit outside all evening
wrapped in each other
knowing that tomorrow
brings mosquitoes
and the mess of dealing
with dead trees.