Waiting

Have we not been here before
in the middle of the wood, churning
like needles torn from the compass
rose? The sky bears down with its rolls
of dark fleece, its frayed ends
and curtain-pulls. We know 
there used to be a room just beyond
the twig-entangled screen, washed
in a soft yellow light and rinsed
of thunder. And we've been there
too, so we know it exists. Let's
rest here even as the storm 
stirs this world into roughened
points. Let's wait for this fire
to burn itself out but not offer
ourselves to its mouth.