The winter-in-a-day that passed by like
an angry ghost made no demands besides
the drop in level of our fuel tank.
The wind blew like the Valkyries on their rides,
yet no snow fell. No power failure psyched
a nervous wife. I know not who to thank.
A fear, though, ushers in the arctic blast
that calls attention to the cosmic void,
where measurement of any kind is moot,
where human folly meets the asteroid
and stellar is diminutive of vast.
Where matter must meet zero absolute.
It took composer and college teacher Donald Wheelock forty years of writing formal poetry to reach the stage of submitting his favorites for publication. Formal poetry, once relegated to second fiddle in a career of writing chamber, vocal and orchestral music, has now demanded equal time. Indeed, it has taken over his life.