Through swirling winds
Whistling kettles burning steam screech wildly into the night
No more, no more
I say cowering down upon the floor
But there is nowhere to hide from winter’s icy storm.
As such the bristling frozen empty branches beckon the boundless squall on
Buckling and creeking
No bird flaps to breach the fractured world
Not one peep or chirrup
The world is too busy breathing
Heavy and loud and violent.
Skin pricked and pimpled dry
Fiercely scalded by storm’s long-reaching arms
To preceed the sweeping rain
For it will come
And it will fall
As sure as porcine tears
After oh that piercing row.