The storm puts its mouth to the house
and blows to produce a note.
I sleep uneasily, turn, with shut eyes
read the storm's text.
But the child's eyes are large in the dark
and for the child the storm howls.
Both are fond of lamps that swing;
both are halfway towards speech.
The storm has childish hands and wings.
The Caravan bolts towards Lapland.
And the house feels its own constellation of nails
holding the walls together.
The night is calm over our floor,
(where all expired footsteps
rest like sunken leaves in a pond)
but outside the night is wild.
Over the world goes a graver storm.
It sets its mouth to our soul
And blows to produce a note. We dread
that the storm will blow us empty.
~ from Selected Poems, edited by Robert Hass
(The Ecco Press, 1987)
