Winter is Dead. Long Live Winter.
(At least until Spring)
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Whose nails press these Cheshire grins,
invisible but for prints in the sand,
of tactile kitty-cat callings on a mewling, Mid-Winter's night?
Stand yourself upright.
Such grumpy knuckles for so pretty a face! Sit.
The world's there still,
waiting for its pounding into submission.
Never fear,
yours will be had.
Who needs a fresh pound of flesh these days anyways?
You never know.
Hunger blows its thousand trumpet report into my ear each day:
A tribute to you, Love.
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Valentine's Day is WEIRD, yo. (I'll be back!)
Besos.
