From the Northeast

When the wind

And rain shift,

Push abruptly

From the northeast,

Blow whistling through

My attic window,

Snatches my hat,

A schoolyard bully,

And all the starlings

Are vexed, skittish,

I do not comprehend,

I am confused by the turn,

My routine up-ended

(a precarious wont as it is).

To evade apprehension

And a sound pelting,

I’m required to tilt,

Bend my head in

A diffident incline,

An unaccustomed direction.

Neither Memo Nor Miro

Everything everywhere frozen,

Thawed and frozen again,

Over standing, brackish water,

Inconsequential configurations,

Curvilinear spirals of ice,

I admire, I’m mesmerized by

These designs and look longer

And longingly at the ditch,

Longingly at a simple beauty,

Longer than at oh-so-significant

Office memoranda, busy, busy

Strategies, missions, implementations.

No, these meandering forms

Are priceless museum Miros,

Studied, revered, emulated.

And no, quietly apparent, this

Scene is neither memo nor Miro.