In the Storm at Dusk in Isolation

In the storm at duck in isolation,
As the old wind blows to and fro whistling her enticing song,
As I face the bright moon gleaming, I think a thought of the sound of the gale and of the moment.

A quiet likeness connects each and every storm.
All tempests, swirling, eruptive, tremendous, cyclones, whirlwinds, typhoons,
All miles of destruction however vast,
All miles of circumstance, all lonely feelings,
All gusts, all living breaths though they be ever so numerous, or in numerous states,
All shivery, biting, immense, collected cool, the indifference, the harm,
All sense, colors, sounds, smells, texture,
All entities that have existed or may exist in this moment or any moment,
All persons and objects, all of the wonder, amazement, pain,
This quiet likeness encompasses them, and always has encompassed,
And shall momentarily encompass them and once more swirl and surge each storm.