Night of Storm
After each silence I hear the storm
gather its strength in the snowbound thicket
northwest of the river (in the dark, sleepless
I time it to daytime things), hear it howl
over black-white ice, bound the open fallow,
clamber the ridge, thrash, falter and stammer
in a tangle of beech, yellow birch and maple,
break free and attack this house, lunge at these doors
till they almost give, then, as if on signal
sink under the sills and whimper, shrink to a groan
on the porch steps, die at the cellar windows-
where the breath pauses in my throat and chest
as though in sympathy with the wind.