Viola I. Paradise

From “Weather Whims”

THE WIND’S a brute, a monster,

Shrieking and yelling about my house;

Tearing at the walls with frantic iron claws.

Striking with frenzied panicked paws

At my windows.

I’m glad it has no mind

As it freaks about my room

Rattling every loose thing.

And I’m glad I’m in bed,

Safe from its maniac mood.

Now it sucks my curtains out of the window

And beats them against the side of the house

And tears them.

I must get up and rescue the curtains.

At the window—incredible!—

The full moon,

Large,

In a naked sky,

Looks down serenely on the anguished trees—

The stiff creaking branches, the scurrying leaves,

Helpless, undignified, in frightened flight.

That monstrous moon,

That great, strong, big full moon

Who sways a million tides with a little gesture—

That powerful, insolent moon—

Looks down, and tolerates the wind!

Bald sluggard moon!—lets the mad wind rage,

Countenances it!

Sheds shameless light on all its obscene passions!

God, I could hate the moon for this!

Is there no limit to indecency?