There—he watched her crossing with finest head askew.

“Was that glance intended for me?” He was sure such a looker would only play for a Manhattanite—one for whom the stats always benefitted. In fact, he would likely hold a double major, with the other being in chrematistics.

If the north pole was money, then the south was class—

Meaning a personality fragile as glass

Had no chance connecting with such a supreme lass.

But, then, the weather is known to change on a dime from time to time and, as it out-turned, this scene was set for his mantle—a snow globe that shook the system precisely enough to have the look to the left be just right for they guy labelled shy, who, even if it was not the final ‘at last’, presented enough coolness to earn a ‘hi’ rather than the expected from a posh passer-bye. ; )

With just a remaining pottle of mettle,

Under giving tree’s sanctuary,

Her vigor chose to settle.

Behind fortress’s island isolated,

Untethered from day’s obligations,

Illumination waited.

Escape ticked neither destination nor dream—

Just moments in breaths of existence—

Til time or what it may seem. ; )

Margie loved playing cat and mouse with winter’s wily fauna, especially when she could catch them off their guard, and even though drive parked no tan Sierra, neighbour’s felt like they were regularly rewatching *that* scene—the feline-‘Fargo’ version—via movieoke as curious cop prepared to pounce on her rapscallion rat. ; )

Blooms:

Some bend towards day’s sunny rays,

Others mourn what manquellers have torn,

A few seem to ever stare at an awe that appears bare,

Lots look straight up, wistfully wishing for a cloud’s pour in their cup,

Many try for a a practical stance—one ideal for a pollinator’s dance,

Most opt to display fully, even if it tempts youths to pully,

Rare ones will open at night because their beauty is tinted by dark over light,

None will ever move in for a kiss, though the ones they give are bliss,

Scarce are those within sepals hid, unable to lift potential’s lid,

All hope to carry a purpose of life, a joy that is resplendent as rife. : )

Are you the kingly tortoise tiger about whom I have heard—the one with a proclivity for procacity, whether it be via stealing kibble from a grumpiest mad dog or bestowing upon mum a still-croaking frog?

Well, my little fearless feline, clearly your love language revolves around gifts to get and gifts to give, so here is an embrace for your adorable face and if you heed more humility—lots—*you* may massage my hard-to-reach spots. ; )