Better This Way

Wind pushing past the tall brown grass,
bending it over
for moments at a time.
The force of the wind against the house
feels like the walls might cave in.
They certainly close in from time to time, but that’s another story.
A story.
I think I’ll read a book and stay inside
my house
where the music is a skillet sizzling
and the place smells like
good food
and a twelve-dollar wine
tastes like a million bucks.
From inside, the tall grass moves
violently,
yet it’s silent as I peer up from my novel
at the stove
and watch through the sliding glass doors.
Sometimes life is better this way.