A WINTER NIGHT

The storm puts its mouth to the house

and blows to get a tone.

I sleep restlessly, tossing and turning, reading

the storm’s text with my eyes closed.

But the child’s eyes are huge in the dark

and for the child the storm wails.

Both are fond of lamps that swing.

Both are halfway toward speech.

The storm has childlike hands and wings.

The caravan runs off to Lapland.

And the house feels its constellation of nails

holding the walls together.

The night is calm over our floor

(where all the dying footsteps

rest like sunken leaves in a pond)

but out there the night is wild!

Over the world a graver storm is passing.

It puts its mouth to our soul

and blows to get a tone. We’re afraid

the storm will blow us empty.