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Wind from the east is a banshee wailing
at the door, from the west a howling chimney.
The worst nights, the car is tense as a cat.
The two of us are there at the center
of force nines shaking the gate and rattling
the loose slates of our insistence:
we have made the right choice. Hours of telly,
journals entries, phone calls from outside
pass our time in the light house with a query
(even as the whitethorns I planted knuckle
down and shy away from standing straight).
How many winters before our hears are
twisted? And the wind answers: by the time
you know that, it will already be too late.