The Storm

To the west trees are cracking
under ice.
To the east snow is smothering
the shout of joy that greeted it.
The continent is quaking.
There is fear rumbling in the house.
Heavy footsteps.
Snarling laughter.
Cyclones of white
and walls of wind.
And the absurd bird of poetry
singing inside me
when I should be afraid
of sharks and shipwrecks.
The cold and the dark.
The angry entrance of the world
through the door,
why I hide behind a chair
putting a horn to my lips
to entice the world to give up
its bullying, and dance,
and learn how to be gentle
and beautiful again,
and not make the rafters tremble
over its frightened children.