Crunch, crunch snow.

Lamps light-glow.

Eve wintry.

Stars glinty.

Hark! Soft chime.

From ghost’s dime?

Like zills. Kay?

Tink’s bells sleigh!

Flakes romance.

Shadows dance.

Lambent path.

Spirit bath.

Corner black.

Could turn back.

Orange brush.

Home? No rush.

Coat’s white stuff.

Fractal fluff.

Gelid chalk.

Frosty walk.

Crackle ice.

Hues feel nice.

Pitched just bright.

Live, full, night. ; )

Alice was musing in the museum when happened an occurrence so baffling

As she was shrunk—along with stag-statues—to a state that left her maffling.

“Oh-oh, d-deer! What h-have we h-here?!” stumbled her inquiring exclamation.

Anticipating her fright, in unison, the circled mates chimed, “Fret not. This is just pre-celebration organization.”

And, then, she was told the actual story of old regarding how Nick could know which souls were decent and which were of the dastardly pack.

Who knew that such correspondences were happening not only twixt domiciles, but between each inherently inert knick-knack?

Of course, it made perfect sense that a wondrous world could be active in both a dream and its encompassing milieu.

Though, she would have preferred to remain full-sized if it meant she could escape the burden of labelling an attribution onto each who.

They must have been telepaths, for sure, as she next heard, “We just need some help checking the list if you do not too much mind.”

“We would do it ourselves, but inked antlers all too oft mark unintended boxes. A couple hours, please, and you may return to your kind.”

So, she rode and she wrote as the—who knew?— now caroling caribou calculated chari-Chris-matics of characters—until it was finally time to bid bye-byes.

*Blink-blink* Before’s same painting and same seat. Fawns back to brawns. Pulling hand from right pocket, alas, a reasonable-seasonable cheer—a miniature reindeer—alive to not-so-much-anymore a surprise. ; )

Miss, directions:

Orvietan orally

For

International illnesses

Of

Pointed poisonings

Or

Beachy bites

From

Seaside stingers.

Sincerely,

Onerous orientations

By

Sham-my’s sleaze shells. ; )

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. ; )