I would have read a newsletter today
while I unwilling willed myself to work,
except the train-borne wind chased it away
too fast for me to follow. With a jerk
of final gusting strength, the funneled gale
that blew before the train took every page
and dumped them down where hums the powered rail,
so I’m bereft of reading something sage.

I know I’m not in charge of space or time.
I can’t control much other than my mood.
Resentment of the wind would be a crime
against all sense. I’m feeling neither rude
nor stupid, so I’ll take my pen in hand
and write some characters I understand.