Rewrite of "The Litle Match Girl"

There is a house that I know of--
The fence blew away in the windstorm last spring.
Frigid blue chipped paint
Howling of freezing rain.
It holds us inside with its nails,
Its walls made of newspaper.

Gray gusts, opaque and tired
Became a thin white woman whose water broke,
Tormented the battered porch, bruised
And knocked on the front door with windy daggers.

He held us tightly, little baskets of dead twigs
With glowing eyes of wise old men,
Tightly against his chest without muscle
Ribs and fingers with no bone.

I watched him cry for the first time.