We Hoist Bottles to Harness the Wind

Slightly alive in this world of furled sails
We nail plastic and glass to the mast.
No friend is the wind who comes now and again
Just to jest at our stagnant distress.

That cursed captain, he said "Listen well, all ye dead,
Land's a treasure, and I am the Key.
Hoist yer sails in wind gales that could empty the sea
But you'll ne'er budge an inch without me."

Childish riddles as these to my ears spoke disease;
Such a sailor as I earns his keep,
Yet he spoke as though toils would earn me no spoils
So I slit his damned throat in his sleep.

"Call me dead man again. You can die in my stead."
Snickered I as his pillow turned red.

Yet it seems he spoke truth, for now nothing we do
Moves our bow any nearer to home.
We've done all that we could to bring land to this wood,
Not a hint of slight progress we've known.

I've lost all hope in sails, they've failed time and again;
We hoist bottles to harness the wind.

The Germans Call It Fruehling

The world smells like dog poop these days.

Thawing preserves from Labrador walks and Terrier runs, creating obstacle courses for melting streams of snow and strollers. Mutt Mitts are shockingly neglected in the months around the winter solstice. Probably secretly. And bitterly.

The earth squishes. As if it's given up its grudge, finally caved in on that thing it said it wouldn't do. Like the time Jennifer Zawislak did invite Karly Kaneski to the birthday party, even though the fight happened on the bus and there hadn't been much talking or notes or phone calls since. And like Jennifer, the ground is breathing is easier for it. Things seem to fizz and pop, as the juices exchange.

Alarm clocks seem too slow, as we lean into the sunshine instead and swap out dark stumbles to sinks and toilets for liftings of window panes and bypasses of wool ensembles.

The melt ensues and the Germans call it Fruehling.