Writer’s block

Sets a scene

Where

Both prose

And verse

Remain benched.

Hence and so,

Returning flow

To think’s ink

Needs wink’s blink

Or tinked kink

Of the penstock. ; )

“Oh, plow, not now!” pleaded Olivia, whom the driver considered a pointed marplot regarding a remunerative task on which he did not have spare time-cents to spend.

“Look, my daughter of bother!” retorted Olivia’s dad, your dalliance with banked snow, though devilishly charming, is precluding me from completing tasks at tow.

Then, Olivia’s dad found pause in his hard stare and noticed the joyful resplendence of his angel’s face as he synchronously off-turned the key—before stepping out of the cab to meet the first-born and find *his* happiness on par—*plop*. ; )

Pelican alights, shearing the lake like a swifted blade—with wings as quillons bracing the draw across the steeled lake. ; )

Awe upon bush fiery

Sparked poet’s tushery,

His preferred remedy

To critic’s malady—

For within words plenty,

Choice is both right and free

When it sets soul glowy

Via pen’s language tree. ; )

Oh, we certainly thought our hatter was mad when he shared with us a furry furphy, suggesting to us there was a new place for afternoon tea that just so happened to create effervescent elixirs which could rejuvenate us to within age twenty by only minutes plus three. Yet, here we sit, adorable, gossipy buddies—though, not quite as cute as floppy-eared bunnies—hoppily—I mean happily—sipping our brews whilst wondering if dreams will beat the ruse via the choice of “What *is* there to lose?” ; )