The speaker begins with a small, almost playful event: a wind rearranges their belongings, and the result is somehow "better order." That tidy surprise sets off a pang of longing. The speaker aches for a "serious purpose," as if the wind has shown up their own aimlessness. The title, "Feckless," seems to confirm it. The speaker suspects they are drifting, without direction or ambition.
Then rain starts coming onto the bed, and the poem turns. Rather than getting up to fix things or search for meaning, the speaker lies down "with the wind," and the two rock together until ten. The image is tender and a little sensual, and it feels like surrender. The speaker doesn't solve the problem of purpose; they set it aside and accept comfort instead. The mood is quiet, wistful, and gently humorous. It suggests that being idle isn't always failure, and that sometimes giving in to the weather is its own kind of answer.