Wind or something more than wind
clatters ladder to the ground, sings doom songs in the trees
and branches of my nerves.
The wind or something in the wind--
It wants in or wants me out,
paws the house with curlicues and eddies,
tests each window by my bed,
whispers promises and when that fails
to open window to its kingdom of the air,
it speaks in lower tones
of places more empty and more vast.
At last I do go out, to check on the ladder
to make sure the noise is what I thought it was,
not something other than the wind
for such things as this need looking after--
though once I would have slept on unaware
of wind or ladders or what the wind brings or takes,
now I am tasked with such, for it must be done.
On the dark side of the house,
the ladder lays in grass and shadow.
A lucky thing when something is the way you thought,
and not a way beyond your thought and mind's small compass.
Even so, something moving in the grass startles;
my shadow cast in thin starlight.
How funny! though the darkness or the wind plays tricks
on balance and perception
and every step seems going downward.
