A Different Kind Of Speaking

Rain like pebbles
tap the window.
The thunder breaks
as the sea on the shore
over and over again.
The wind beats against
these deeds, weathering
their wooden shingles,
dampening all hopes
of outrunning erosion.
Hallowed is the house
standing on this bluff,
over and over it looks
the silver, stormy sky.
Rest returns, a refuge
remains. Washed
yet not washed away.