A night for soup

I hear the pounding on the wall
which is surely being worn
by the fury of the squall,
by the raging of the storm.

I see falling torrents of rain
drifting o’er road and grass,
clinging to the window pane,
and tapping on the glass.

I can smell it in the breeze
through the opened window’s screen
carrying the scent of trees,
musty and yet somehow clean.

And I can feel it getting stronger
gearing up to last even longer.