Storm

How far to call.

The winter night, before I closed the door,

Came swirling in, wet and white.

Now it hums high, whines,

Caught in some frozen corner of the yard.

To reach a book is useless;

Some forlorn thought keeps reaching off my glasses,

And I move the curtain to see dark wind,

Cold, wild. Some sudden swell of cry

For motion and will resounds around the air,

And I yearn out and tremble

To hear the voice that’s muffled in the storm

And to warm some frozen hand awhile in mine.

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