The night wind howls
around my house,
and I - like one entombed
in the lungs of that howling man -
cannot sleep.
For eight hours, then,
I lie and shivver,
hearing every last shudder and splinter
of the wind and the wood.
The moan of the elements
becomes my own moaning;
the power and force of it
rattling my house,
my power,
and yet I know it can engulf
and destroy
me and all I own,
reclaim me to the yawing soul
of the abyss.
Morning comes,
radio on,
I learn
April showers used to bring
May flowers,
this year they bring
just the cold of the tomb.
Then the story on the radio changes,
and we're back
to the same old bickerings in the U.S. Senate,
the same old wars and revolutions,
humanity navelgazing --
How deaf we are to the voice of our mother,
begging us, pleading us
to pay heed to each other.
May this week pass peacefully.
