The wind whips
and scrapes the walls
like ivy looking for its foothold

round windowsills
and rotten wood
winter chills a new years cold
scouring for the way in

rolling barrels of fury
tumultuous spasms
unrelenting open hands
slaps the face of every bush and branch
with each pass
the lawns and meadows left
rippled like a poorly tacked carpet

the scaffolding of men rests on brace and bolts
and handshakes with the granite walls
adornments flap their benign capes
eddies of grit spiral, walking tall

Inside I watch you
like a ****** staring at the passing crowd
but not knowing where to look;
only you are everywhere

blankets and lights and even the TV
are curtains to pretend your not outside;
I need not venture out yet

at least,
not until morning