THE STORM

We were sitting around the lamp
rocking, in our den, not reading
just looking at the print of books
our eyes averted from each other
and feeling more within ourselves
all the principles of our nature
bleak wind outside and the rain
forgetting the lake’s other shore
the wind pealing up over the rocks
in frail layers of the gray thing
the quick scraping of dead branches
fragments of leaf, like green skin
stuck to the window, Paul’s yell
across those awfully broken waters
sweet yellow scripture scattered
the lighthouse decayed by the rain
“the world is not our abiding place”
and we were not around the light
but outside, but not together
but outside in the flaring rain
staring at our faces drawn by age
like wolves, rocking in our chairs
with the dirty redness of our eyes
the wildness of our changing hair