The Windsea

Sometimes the winter is fierce
and moreso lately with winds
tossing the sea in the air.
A combination of pressures.
I'm alone again in the windsea,
that connected violent force
in that sort of night called lonely,
listening to the earth's big voice.
I repeat, I am alone with it.
It isn't easy.
The clock ticking on the wall,
the angry tirades we've been through
today, the taxi I had to take home,
the unchanging force of that
as pure as the tumult of the building
as it bends imperceptibly
to the will of the windsea outside.
And we're not shaking, not really
on speaking terms but the windsea
tells the walls otherwise,
tells the screens to creak
and the windows to open
just enough to feel that one
cool stream of air, like water
that erodes the sturdiest
of mortars and leaves tracks
of moss to map the cracks
and the shiney lines of snails after it rains.
All of it trying to get in or out,
what is the difference really?
And we're not shaking in separate beds.
Not crying or apologizing, just not shaking
nor really asking except for a bit of sleep
and some relief from the togetherness
of the windsea outside and the badgering.
If only buildings were bodies
and souls had windows, I'd let you in and it'd be quiet.