Spring 1986, Volume 3
Poetry

Mike Meyer


January

Dark low clouds hang over Iowa farmlands
bringing snow and cold winter winds
that bluster over plowed fields.
The blowing snow packs and forms icicles
on cattle standing in open yards.
Cold and steamy breath rises
like smoke signals in air
from one hundred frozen noses
crowded together for survival.
When the snow ends and the wind dies
the blinding, piercing flakes
form a gentle sparkling blanket
that covers large red barns
whose bosoms are filled with baled hay
and cats.

In Memory of Don Quixote

Windmills limply stand
with broken arms sputtering
in the breeze.
Their rotting, paintless braces,
held by rusty nails,
support only cobwebs
and the early morning dew
they collect.
Small grey mice quickly scamper
over the fallen timbers
that are covered with moss
and wild roses.
All are unaware
that the windmills might be giants.