Drop down upon me
the finest wine: rain
spilling off my shoulders
into the empty soil.

Sing the wind, its melody
twined with the voice
of the last tough grass cheering the moisture on,
its many-channeled throat wide open with joy.

Snow’s coming soon, perhaps
days from now, no more
than weeks away.  Maples and oaks alike
shudder, waiting for the burden to settle.

I soak it all in, the portents
and the fulfilled prophecies,
the whispering and the roaring.

I shall gladly forget my name soon,
surrender it to this symphony —
one instrument drowning, but for now, still there.

Polonius would have understood
the seductive nature of Twitter:

the opportunity to listen in
upon intimacy and
usually unexpressed thought

though he had a purpose in mind
unlike so many of us

Polonius would still have had something inane to say

and from behind the curtain
he would have said it
out loud

No one
smells a rat anymore
because we invite
our lurkers

secure in the knowledge
that no one will lug our guts
to the neighbor room
for having heard too much

There is no longer
too much
Ophelia would have announced her imminent drowning
Laertes would have Googled
to learn the proper venom for his sword
and the melancholy Dane
would have heard it all ahead of time
right down to the last sweaty detail
thus decanting
an even more potent poison
into the porches of his own ears