Odes to the desks in my Biology classroom

Red

Woodgrain
   A tiny seat and desk
  becomes, for three hours,
     a bubble.
A tiny little world
   but safe.
A barren classroom
   White walls, grey-green floor
       with carpet tiles.
But the desk seats are red.
One splash of hot blood, three, thirty
    on a backdrop, a canvas
      of nothing.
Somehow the red gives the
   dead room life.
Rhythm-centered music
      pulsing to the heart.

Woodgrain River

Grain of the wood flows within
Patterned without repetition
Silent ripples in the din
For those who try to listen
Water frozen in the act
Colored like honey, pale and gold
While the voice goes on about cold facts
The wood has another tale to be told.