All right, you’re pretty. But more specifically,
you are falling snow, crystalline in the street,
muffling motorcycle engines and businessmen,
falling, falling up and all around,
you skip along the shoulder of a forest road
snow falling up but still covering the ground.
Whimsy but efficient.
The sun sets to back down.
You smile and he wraps his tail around
his paws and tilts his head at your feet,
how was he to know?
He flattens his ears and looks down
so that you may rise with all
the glow and murmur of the moon,
a bulb of sun draped with a lampshade of snow,
snow falling up, moon may rise
during sunset, the sun can’t succeed
even half as well as you can try.

There we meet again – I like this you know,
emphatically said the sun to the snow,
flash those diamond crystals on me even as you flow,
can’t wait to melt you and bask in your afterglow.

There we go again – it’s a one-way deal when done,
knowingly retorted the snow to the sun,
making shapes out of diamond is what’s fun,
take your warmth elsewhere for the life of one.

Then they spoke again – opposites do attract I suppose,
snow crystals shined the sun like he was dancing on her toes,
unseen colors and fancy hues unlike any other shows,
snow she said just let me keep shining and keep my fancy pose.

Joining hands, sang they did, in chilly warmth - “Let it snow, let it snow”!

Falling
Snowflakes 'round me:
Bird wings beat hushedly;
Spoken words ripple silently
Falling.

Awash in dancing sea glass light
I watch the ocean late at night
But I have never been

The only ocean that I know
Is filled with wintry frozen snow
That God did not intend

I wander cross it in a fright
While tripping often as it’s night
And slipping on the snow

An owl wings above my head
Reminding me of seagulls led
By merchants to the coast

A barrel loaded to the brim
And sailors singing salty hymns
Assault my ears and nose

I grasp the rough hewn timber rail
And hear the snapping of the sail
Among the clapping waves

The salty air upon my tongue
Turns dark and rough and then we plunge
Upon a pitching swell

A glowing branch lights up the sky
I see it though I’ve closed my eyes
And shines upon some hell

I know it from my darkest fears
And shun such moaning from my ears
All thought has lost its perch

Wait, no more am I staring out
Aloof, aghast, about to shout
Now I see ice-glazed birch

They shiver slightly with the cold
A breeze picks up and takes its hold
On sounds from far away

A quiet whisper fills my head
The voice that wracks a soul with dread
And grabs me by the feet

I stand there frozen to my spot
But seeing only driftwood rot
And float away from me

The icy hand that grasped my throat
And pricked my skin and thinned my coat
Now plays his lilting harp

I fall into a deepened sleep
His lullaby like counting sheep
And nod off in the snow

When I awake, a tropic storm
Has thundered in to greet with warm
But hellish gusts of air

I saw you looking
at a snow globe
you said you wanted to go there
I asked where
to China daddy
I asked why
that is where snow is made.

How can I use my phone less? Should I?

I use it to reach out to my daughter...
I call my mama every day...

I tell my sister, I will call her
       And set an alarm to do it...
             Oh well...

I can just fly to the opposite coast...
      And hug her little one...
And be a perfect auntie... for one week...

Oh! that's so cheating!
     Ok, I'm cheating....
            But I'm good at it!

Do you know why?
     Because when I see your little one...
        I see you... and I love her so much!

And I'm sorry I wasn't a good sister...
I wanted to...
I planned on being fair, and caring, and supportive...
     When I was 9...
        But when I was 10....
I got jealous...
I didn't even know that I was...

But you know what?
I still ironed your little blankets...
And went to get donated milk for you...
     Yes!
        In the snow!..
           For like 20 min walk through the snow...
Because you needed milk to grow...

            ... and because I love you <3

Cinnamon
winters the rolls.
If my past childhood memories serve me correctly.
Better than playing in the wettest Christmas snow
leaves a sweet kiss behind.
My lips follows, with an expected sigh.
To again taste one of many...
the many tasty treasures left behind
by the Elusive divine.
In that very moment;
where the sweet cinnamon lubricates
my feisty lips.
All is ******* history.
Isn't it?
And so I ravaged the now decimated sweet treasure
with many sinful bites.
Smoked a cigarette afterwards.
There was a no smoking sign.
Indeed, **** and cinnamon don't mix.
On the tiny red plate, where the cinnamon rolls once lived.
a few crumbs in its wake still exists.
Confusion is typical of this kind of ish.
When you lick the mooing cows hidden dish.

Written and Copyrighted (C) 2014
by Claude Robert Hill, IV.