In Which I Cry Uncle

I couldn't find it, deep beneath the snow

The feeder that the birds and wind knocked down

And buried sometime during last night's blow.

I'm sure it's much the same all over town.

My pupils down to pinpoints in the glare,

My fingers freezing in their gloves, I tried

To dig a path for postmen, cars - I care

That people try to do their jobs despite

Conditions. They were pitiful enough,

My efforts; I could not sustain too much,

Could not draw breath sufficient for the tough,

Laborious removal of, as such

A day's and night's accumulation. I'm

Still dizzy as I type out this here rhyme.

BONUS SONNET: In Which The Customary Closet Is Eschewed... For The Clothes Dryer?

I have a dog, and Molly is her name.

A tale or two I've told of her before.

I now may add to her e'er-growing fame

For cowardice, the following: Of yore,

When thunder's rumbles have occurred,

E'en ere their sensing by mere human ears,

To hide has been her instinct, though absurd;

Our house is large and sturdy. Molly's fears

Will brook no consolation, though. At most

Such times this collie-chicken mix has made

Her shelter in a closet. There, a ghost

In black and white she's cowered and she's stayed

Until bribed with a nom. But now the dryer

Seems safer? Or does she seek lint attire?

What's It Sound Like, Indeed

The pitter-patter of four collie feet,

And thuds as she finds a good place to hide,

Alert me even more so than the beat

And drum of thunder, that I must abide

Another thunderstorm. At last a flash

Is visible from my seat at my desk.

They're brief but powerful, these storms; alas,

Though, little rain accomp'nies them out west

(This June so far's had plenty rain but it's

Anomalous that way). Speaking of sound,

The Mud Room of Squee brought on quite a blitz:

Blue Snowflake, welcome to my toybox. Found

On Amazon, and harnessed soon to make

Some sounds to cause th'internet to quake.