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.


Heavy sky
but with good breezes
that drift on by –
playful teases.

It all so pleases,
I murmur and sigh
as my breath eases.

A natural high
amid wispy wheezes;
beloved are my
playful teases.