Doom is dark and deeper than any sea-dingle

We're having a January thaw, and I've been slowly exhaling the breath I'd been trying to hold for almost a month. Despite assurances that worrying doesn't change anything, I'm almost superstitious about it. If I imagine it, it won't happen... like the joke about taking an umbrella with you so it won't rain.

This time of year is when I think more about the possibility of doom. When we have to get out from under the covers in the dark--particularly if it's one of those mornings when I've woken up at 3:30 am to the realization that I haven't called an electrician yet to look at those old wires we found connected to the fluorescent light that stays on in the utility room or finished dealing with the insurance company about the medical bill from last summer. When the sound of waking is everyone--including the cats--sneezing and coughing. During one of those icy interminable afternoons when Ron's forgotten his phone.

Doom is dark and deeper than any sea-dingle.
Upon what man it fall
In spring, day-wishing flowers appearing,
Avalanche sliding, white snow from rock-face,
That he should leave his house.
No cloud-soft hand can hold him, restraint by women;
But ever that man goes
Through place-keepers, through forest trees,
A stranger to strangers over undried sea,
Houses for fishes, suffocating water,
Or lonely on fell as chat,
By pot-holed becks
A bird stone-haunting, an unquiet bird.

There head falls forward, fatigued at evening,
And dreams of home,
Waving from window, spread of welcome,
Kissing of wife under single sheet;
But waking sees
Bird-flocks nameless to him, through doorway voices
Of new men making another love.

Save him from hostile capture,
From sudden tiger's spring at corner;
Protect his house,
His anxious house where days are counted
From thunderbolt protect,
From gradual ruin spreading like a stain;
Converting number from vague to certain,
Bring joy, bring day of his returning,
Lucky with day approaching, with leaning dawn.

Every day we all return intact is one more day that our letter of ruin must still be lost in the mail. We can have incandescent light. And supper, and maybe a round of our new favorite game, Lie-brary.