Tree’s twin twigs each agreed

To let blows carry seed

Easterly into ground,

Westerly upon sound—

With whispered promise kept

By wind’s chirograph prepped:

To live by fate afloat

Or sing spring’s next new note. ; )

Upon the sill, they did just park—

Feline duo as home’s ethnarch,

Too out-tuckered to clear the realm

Of missed mices now at the helm

Of each holed wall and squeaky floor

Echoing back their kitties’ snore—

A purr-fectly whiskered dream sneeze

That permits chase for choicest cheese. ; )

I heard that being a palaeontologist’s pup has its perks—boney ones—and that astronomers yield toys that are out of this world, but as the melancholic mutt of a banal boffin, I can confidently assert that science is for the dogs named Lucky rather than the ones named Blue. ; )

“What is this?” queried Frosty [in his mind] as his body stood frozen upon the walk.

“I used to be able to dance and sing.” he sighed [again, in his mind], unable to talk.

With pinpointed eyes and stiffened joints, he, then, began feeling like his body was being plummeted by hail.

Why was all this happening? It seems to have all gone awry soon after lunch of dried ice and dwale.

“Is there a doctor or fairy or magical hat somewhere in the nearby midst?” Frosty’s brain begged via tried telepathy.

“I am even warming up to the idea of some cocoa.” chimed his cuckoo cogitations. “Then, at least I could pee.” ; )

While a phalanstery may be, for some, a world at its fingertipped peak,

Freedom’s talon story of style sees utopia hand-fed to its beak. ; )