the wind, unseen,
collides with the walls
and makes them sing
a groaning song.
a wail, a whisper,
then silence.
you hear.
you listen.

then the rain starts
to knock on your roof,
gentle at first like it is shy,
doubt in every drop
or consideration in its presence.
but you know in your heart
that it is not welcome
nor is its embrace;
you endure the knocking
and never dare to go outside
to greet it.
you will feel okay.

then the rain decides
it no longer cares.
the gentleness dissolves.
the pounding starts above you.
so does the pounding
behind your eyes.

the lights go out
and you are engulfed in darkness
making the spaces you've known
your whole life unfamiliar
all over again.
candles replace light bulbs,
orange replaces white.
there is a lick of a little flame
on your hands
wherever you go,
so you don't stumble—
a comfort from the shadows.

flashes of white lightning peek
behind the curtains
and illuminate your face
for a fraction of a second
and you feel either or both:
relief of light,
or a terrible fright.

what are you really afraid of?
lightning,
or the terrible thunder
that soon comes after?

but you lift your voice to the heavens
and remember to hum
your favorite song.

you pick your way through
the furniture and messy clothes
and open a door.
you lie in bed and surround yourself
with a thousand pillows
and your heaviest duvet.
warmth settles in you,
first in your spine,
last in your toes.
you shiver one last time
from the transition
of being cold to no longer.
you sink into your makeshift fortress
as your eyes adjust
to the faint contours of your room;
bathed in new light (in the dark).
you hear.
you see.

the world outside is in chaos,
but in Here you are safe;
the rain hammers ceaselessly,
unforgiving,
but in Here you are safe.

you feel.
you listen.

you sleep.