when the storms threaten like this
you begin to thank the well-placed
woodplank floors for remaining
planed and smooth,
solid and strong
for you
tonight.

something so unseeming
as a hundred-year old house
can give comfort
and keep you from
needless fretting.

this sound house
fortifies and protects,
like a castle in the
mist.

you never
felt so thankful
as you feel
when nothing sways
and shutters stay shut
keeping maelstrom away.

there is an unbroken
ceiling above my bed,
and i find this remarkable.

there is an unbroken
ceiling above the bed,
and this is remarkable.

the cracks and unsteady
rooms exist in our mind,
the mourning cooing howls
portray uncertain weather.

as long as my house is solid,
i can be broken within it,
and still believe that i am safe
and sound.

after "Shipping News" (based on a novel by E. Annie Proulx)

this tornado is a foul-mouthed
old-western-era cowboy
moving down our driveways
with a torqued strut,
it's either the skinny legs
in too-tight jeans
or the effort required to keep
the jangling spurs from getting
tangled that makes his knees
bend and heels point out.

this tornado is a 50-foot clack
of bones in a skeleton frame,
the felted cowboy hat
snug on the skull,
his holsters are empty,
but he packs a mean gnarly fury
kicking up dust with his
saloon-kicked-me-out tumbling.

if we turn away,
and avert our eyes from this threat,
he may pass in peace,
and forget to scatter us like
texas tumbleweeds, rolling to our graves.

(after midnight, march 3, 2008)