The Wind

The Wind


The wind
It growls at me
The pressure
Compresses me

The clouds press in
Surround
Gather in total
Blackness

Fingers tremble
As building shakes,
Trembles
Around me

Hail tinkles
Tinkles over, and
Over and over,
Will it not end?

Whispers now,
But what do they say
If only.  If only, I could
Understand

Whistles now
Through the vents
Under the door
Is it calling me

Bang, creak again?
And again?  What is it?
Is something calling me?
Is something there?

Ken Goree


This poem was written in Cannon Beach, Oregon, on February 23rd 2011.  My daughter, Carly, and I were staying in a beach front room watching as the first push of a winter storm blew in off the ocean.  Waves of blowing snow would crest and break over and over against our windows.  Several times the clear windows would suddenly be hit and covered with a thin white blanket.  Within moments, and a gust of wind would strip the window bare again. 

Though Carly and I are succumbing to the latest cold of 2011, we are still enjoying our stay, runny noses and all. 

It is energizing to experience nature's savage assault on the coast, even if we are experiencing it from a warm room, behind two panes of insulation.