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Poem

If you can find shelter when the firmament rumbles
And drips spears of weighty waters
Keep about you the hope that clear skies might come,
Be glad for the storied house that a stray seed built,
That you might claim, and in it, brave the storm.

Heaven takes no command from men
that are stuck by the roadside under makeshift nests; 
Prepare, then, to wade from November’s head to April’s tail.
Find friends in the things that crawl, things that creep and jibe.
Say comrade to the tippy tapping tango of rain by the tree’s end.

Before the tree gives much comfort and you forget to miss the sun,
Before you curse Icarus for being too kind to the warmer things,
You will know that the earth can be dark and unforgiving;
The wind stings your skin like lashes from an iced belt
and the cold envelopes your adolescent patience.

The first men gave unto you rocks to strike light and conjure warmth,
Do not yet lead praises due north nor kindle your grass roof,
Because this shelter is made from paper, petrol, 
Paraffin, and things that burn;
And you are matchsticks bathed in kerosene.

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