The satisfactory thing in watching flame—

The satisfactory thing in watching flame,
Its cardinal breast, its leap of wings,
Is the unreluctant sense it always brings
Of certain satisfaction of its aim;
It knows that it consumes the chosen wood,
And will consume it to an ash,
I’d consider it quite brave but rash
If wood held private hopes, misunderstood.

Crows

Burning with a quick thin flame
Charcoaled scarves blow whole and fall
In a field no green has touched at all.

Heavy-handed, hoarse complaining,
Treading down the liquid snow,
They strut on brittle legs, no shyness feigning,
Thinking that it’s they who’s reigning.

Knowing no one any better
They assume they are the best.
Never will they understand the quaintness of
this jest.