The Third Winter

The familiar frame of white walls, all aimed square and fair
north south east west with wilted windows eking light in dribbles and spurts
during four hours of the day.

"I'm tired of looking at the same four walls," says the face
inside the four walls, two-dimensional. What I wouldn't give to be
looking at their four walls.

Or better, let the walls fall and let us all hear the thunder rumble
up out of the west and south where the ghosts of kindnesses unchosen linger
sweeping with it cool wet air.

There the sound shakes my body, picks me up by the back of the neck
tosses me back and forth until I am shaken loose and free
the rain the rain the rain the rain the rain.