The wind outside it whips and bites

The wind outside, it whips and bites,

rattles the panes and panes.

My mind goes back to ancient nights,

and heavy, sudden rains.

The old farm's door, a slab of wood,

where earth was damp and cool.

A promise understood,

beneath the metal tool.

The iron latch, so thick and grim,

pulled shut against the storm.

A quiet, dark, and hollow hymn,

keeping all inside warm.

That musty smell, a breath of earth,

where preserves sat, row on row.

A place of shelter, silent birth,

when fierce winds start to blow.