Poetry: Untitled #10 and 11

[nebroadwe]

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.

This popped up this morning, in response to another poet's frustration with tanka-writing:

Trying and failing
And trying again, to fail
Better, as he said

(Who knew better than any
The power of subtraction.)

Crossposted to just_tanka here and here.