Gusting winds—whiplike—batter bent bushes,
bowing, battered, bludgeoned; resilient trees
wave as storm rages with ravenous pitch,
while in cottage a lonely candle burns,
comforting four hands at plain deal table.
In willow-breath of a slender candle
with darkness at bay, solitude descends
like a parable of mute wisdom
outside the feverish bustle of wreck.
A white moth flutters above the candle.
Only when bright flame burns inside the heart,
do we see clearly in the obscure dark:
Life then appears to be steady in storm,
wan conundrum, rosy daybreak at dawn.