All through the night: wind
gusts that rattled.
Agitation of limbs, leaves
that hinged and sifted.
Deck furniture that banged
against brine-soaked wood.
I could not sleep so I made myself
a sandwich, I heated water for a cup
of tea. With every knock
on the eaves I listened,
wondered at the strength holding
mitered corners. A window
banged; and up the street,
a gate blustered open. But I knew
it was really the clamor
in my heart for which I listened.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.