Up through the ravine roared the north wind,
as if in a war against the first night of spring.

We heard the tin roof spread its wings
above our bed, in the dark of the mountain,
suddenly alive, and panting to fly
away with the wildly turbulent clouds.
We felt alarming thumps, and shrieks howled as
the metal yanked and twisted in an agony to
rip nails from their roots like
pulling teeth without novacaine.

It continued all night and morning.
At eleven, pale sun fingers crept out and
touched the frozen expanse of roof ice,
hanging down off the edges, long and thick,
with its cruel sharp claws of dripping icicles
pointing in crookedly toward the windows.

We watched as the sheets began to break off.
They fell for hours against walls shivering sharply,
piece by piece abruptly crunching against glass;
a monster attempting to consume the house
bite by manic bite.

And the clamoring wind chimes
thrashed like frenzied lovers; at last
breaking their grasp
and falling to rest
in the soft white snow.
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(C) 2002 Rosemary J. Gwaltney
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