Obviously, we can't be Vona Groarke today, or any day, unless we want to get all Being John Malekovich, so, let's be her poem.
The wind orchestrates its theme of loneliness and the rain has too much glitter in it, yes. They are like words, the wrong ones, insisting I listen to sense. But I too am obstinate. I have white walls, white curtained windows. What need have I of the night's jet-black, outlandish ornament? What I am after is silence in proportion to desire, the way music plumbs its surfaces as straight words do the air between them. I begin to learn the simple thing burning through to an impulse at once lovely and given to love that will not be refused.