Poetry: Untitled #10 and 11

Pushing a book truck
Across the worn, pilled carpet,
I pass a window:

Silently thronging the air,
Snowflakes drift earthward. Surprise!

Inspired by yesterday's weather, composed primarily on the edge of sleep last night, and -- mirabile dictu! -- not forgotten by dawn, this poem does not explain why I then dreamed about commuting barefoot to work during a summer flood. Eugh.

( Untitled #11 under the cut. )