Dave Bonta's poem puts us in the middle of a windy, rainy night in early spring, when the ground has thawed and everything outdoors seems to be moving. The speaker lists what he hears and smells: worms pulling leaves underground, rain pattering, and creaking trees at the woods' edge that sound like rusty doors swinging on their hinges. Nature is busy, loud and alive.
Against all that activity, the speaker seems oddly flat. He sleeps "without dreaming" and wakes "without waking up," as if he's going through the motions. The line about two more hairs turning white "according to schedule" adds a calm, slightly wry acceptance of aging.
The ending shifts things. The house "shakes with the effort to keep from flying apart," and it's hard not to read this as the speaker too, holding himself together. The mood is restless and a little uneasy, but also quiet and observant, with the outside world seeping steadily inside.