please don't burn the roux

A light roux for dark meats
is part of my vade mecum,
it's so useless to argue
in a world of stainless leaps.

I can see the far cupola
with its blue dome
and white lattices
harboring pigeons in the freeze.

I am not expecting to be saved.

So back to the whisk with vigor,
for when the roux is burned
all hope is truly lost.

a thing the water rat knew

The river is bigger than you are,
not over to godly brown when
running in reeds blanched fully
white by spring's swollen burst,

but god-like in late autumn, yes,
with fluvial red in found gold,
and thin skimmers lasting grins
perched over setting shimmers,

the iridescent reeds still green.