Settling indoors from day’s play, sisters sat down for piping cocoas over a conversational session of journaling and scrapping. Kylie’s thoughts had been racing replays through her inner thoughts all the way home and she was sure that would provide an easy transfer into written words, but her pen just hovered over the page as her mind wished for return to afternoon’s adventure. Then, half-subconsciously, her hand began to trace tracks over the page, following the paths the komatik had taken them—through the open field, cutting the glacial glen, over the iced waters, her pen scratching the paper so slightly synonymous to the steel that had scraped glidings over gelid horizons. It was like one of those literary maps they print on the first page of an epic, showing notable places of the hero’s journey; though, she still needed to label the points of interest and, truth be told, her joy initially fell in skating the pen over the paper more than recognizing interest in its marked lines. But, as she began to out-fill the view with geographical points and even the cam-snow-flaged wildlife they had spotted, she felt a warmthful security—more so than that from washes of chocolate sipped—in the memory she was etching, eliminating its ephemerality in an [equally] enduring, emotive experience. ; )

If you hope, regarding the pope, that I am appointed apocrisiary in Constantinople, that would merit a nope.

[…for Holy Meow’s missive as dope…]

In mew’s cope, rewarding their mope, at heights: wham up-jointed bobble—crispy—very, accosting sinned apple cat’s mood swears is a trope. ; )

Bluey, born of artful lens rather than of hearthful dens, became, then, soon aware of her consternation regarding a lack of hibernation—compounded by a sense of lucifugous weariness and—believe it or not, still meliphagous beariness—as she searched for photophygous cheeriness. So, as she happened upon structure strengthed to state steady—more than able and ready for such steely-souled teddy, paws played tinted panes by drub, hoping entry for cursed cub in skyscraper’s homely hub ‘till rested eyes waked to rub. ; )

As harvest-home seasons reason for thanks,

Also celebrating are rhino tanks,

Noshing greenlit grasses for healthy horns

Whilst others stuff selves with un-candy corns,

Both prizing company with whom they feed—

Any of ‘A maize, in Graze’ giving need. ; )

She sat on favourite bench for turns of pages of laughter’s noon,

Titillated by tale of maiden rescued by her picaroon.

Who fancies these fantasies? inwardly outburst her thought balloon.

For sure, I would never fall for such lunacy of love by loon.

Then, out of autumned park, sat beside her a Kelly none too soon,

Whose queries about her book were relayed not by voice, but by croon,

Followed by breezy battle of eyes and air tipping a tap tune,

Sweeping gal away for dance play, leaving behind good-grief’s rain spoon. ; )