Monday Morning
The wind whistled around the house just now
with that insistence winter air reserves
for nights with something wistful to declare.
A fly’s frustration breaks the daylight’s silence
with a buzzing at the windowpane. The trees
along the wood’s edge have that look that says
it’s time to give up color for the season.
There’s not much new, I’ve seen it all before;
the best we can expect are quiet joys.
November’s in the air. Enjoy the browns,
the new transparency of trees, the way
exuberance has turned from gold and reds to age.
“Looking for a Quieter Experience?”
A sign in a local library
I’d hear a dose of irony,
were it not for children’s voices
ricocheting off the plastered walls, their glee
permitted here among the softer noises.
Check out a pair of Bose headphones,
the sign suggests, a photo of a pair
they offer for the drones and moans
of ambient air.
No thanks—and my reactions were extreme:
it’s quiet now and I should shout
for joy at being given such a theme
to write about.
Donald Wheelock finds poetry, a preoccupation for many years, has taken over his life after a career of teaching and composing concert music. Sparks of Calliope, THINK, Blue Unicorn, and many other journals have published his poems. His two full-length books, It’s Hard Enough to Fly and With Nothing but a Nod have been published by Kelsay Books and David Robert Books, respectively.
Sparks of Calliope 