It takes a quatrain to cry

Sweet wind upon my face upturned to sky,
A black, wet sea of staining cool, hard void.
The whisp'ring paled eyed stars do me o'er spy
And help me wonder what's to be enjoyed.

Iambic pentameter Sunday (blank verse): Ten Mile Linear Marsh

We walked along the new made marsh midday,
With puppy sometimes in our arms for rest.
As further from the parkway we strolled down,
the buzz of cars began to fade away.

"A gator, on the bank!" a biker said.
But we had missed it as we talked and laughed.
The puppy didn't care a whit on that
there's too much rot to sniff along the way.