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.