~
She stands on the roof of the world, a ship in a bottle. She likes to wave at passing boats, inviting 120 volts to raise their sails.

Words unbosomed -- her attempt of blotting out the sun and those bloodletting habits.

Her eyelids say, "Only the disquieting muses have time for me." So she writes like an umbrella, shading reality; remembering pluck and luck stories about bumblebees, lovingly wrapped in Tiffany-blue ribbon and paper.

Father used to solve her every contemplation. Now indecisiveness in what she asks. Now indecisiveness in arbitrary tasks.

And she and her negative capability are the last two awake at a slumber party, giving commonplace words the allure of secrecy.

You see, she is only harmless when she sleeps.
~

First Sunday in Advent brought
Dusting of snow
Brief glimpse of sunlight, pallid and low
Last blooms of autumn were finally lost
In the wisps of the mist and the
Harsh bite of frost
Male blackbird called softly on shed top
Dark silhouette against gloomy sky
Had already tonsured the fruit from the bushes
His mate jumped and fluttered for that left on the sides
Hard ground criss-crossed by bird tracks and cat prints
Silence cracked by flat echo of crows
Honeysuckle berries, black as mouse eyes
Grimly stared at the white world below.