Rule-Breaking, Round 3: Winterlust


O, under open white sky,

I’ll watch the grey kaleidoscope

dusting and swirling, like the hope

of a white winter, cold and dry.

The icy sharp bite brings a slow

cutting blow, where the birds no longer fly.

Steaming cider and hot tea;

The people walking glance, and pass

by the windows, huddled like cats,

Shivering and grinning. Pleased.

Nothing but barren trees and dead grass

on the corner of Pennsylvania and Thirteenth.

Lit log-piled hearth fire,

I see a shadow tango in the firelight.

I feel an ember smolder with delight,

And hear the long-lost plucking of a lyre

who echoes; breaking through the sight

of a cracked, and trans dimensional mirror.


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I was grown from mushroom spores.

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