Outside is where the wildness stays.
We lock the door, look in dark closets,
make sure the coast is clear,
the moon is a lighthouse beacon,
and the unfamiliar keeps to itself.
Once the house settles, it sighs
a crack on the wall, near the crossbeam
holding up what wants to bear down.
Sometimes, the wild is nothing more
than wind, or imagination;
but other times, other unsettling times,
the wild grows darker,
devouring small house lights, one at a time,
moving toward this safe house
which now feels unsafe.
We wait for the wildness to move on.