trashing a poem

the sweeping shape 
as the poet with broom in hand,
attempts to make it all neat and tidy
and in the dustpan 
and then taken to the sidewalk.

the piled-up words, a children's story
that starts on one page and proceeds to the end.

but life rarely comes with readymade pages.

the illustrator needs to color the images
or interpret the rhymes
with a sharp wit or a wink or a hidden mouse 
in the corner of every page.
or how about a moon rising?
or a chocolate chip cookie, with a bite taken out?
or perhaps a caterpillar?
so many ways to color the pages of the day,
weeping up the words into the bin
tidying the edges,
knowing that the words 
will need to be tidied tomorrow too.

so the poet puts away her broom,
sails from the room,
returns to the page, 
stays on the shape of today's story, 
hoping to spark a thought of 
of home. 

Freezing Rain

Ice slides into cracks
on bridges.
Do not cross.
Reports indicate more 
is on the way.
Freezing cold and flakes fall,
only following the tug of gravity.
Looking to land in a home
on sidewalks slick.
Just water,
frozen, bright, looking to land.