Cure

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The clock, alarming and as a storm, swirling seemingly sideways
Faster, more red and ominous than my 1am pro·pri·o·cep·tors

The gyroscope, spinning and my brainy mind righting itself
Stronger, my legs are and I swear to all that Is holy, I’ll not fall

Clutch

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The conversation amongst Creation
Ripples through the wood
Chip-chirp, hoot-whoo, back and forth
Speak they, then stop
Perched strong atop 
The corner of their branches
To consider whether serving 
As her a.m. alarm 
Is worthy
Of their majesty