As nun-mum perused the menology regarding accounts of week’s upcoming feasts, cat’s tum-tum purred, “Whose them?”, and all of She-Ra, gearing a pounce, dove teefs upon seen sheets. ; )

Your face I do miss—

[From your not-new miss].

Pecked cheeks of the past

Pained to have you miss.

And, any ghazal

Would broke words due miss.

For what bloomed now bleeds

Hearts one of two miss.

Hun still holds hushed hope—

Re[-]pairing who[m] miss. ; )

Inara surely felt inquisitive about it before she felt intrepid, but, in the end, it worked—even with neither mirror nor photo clippings to ignite incisive instinct; indeed, the portrait seemed to have painted itself as she played interrogatrix to the canvas’ oft brusk brush-offs—a conversation pieced through introspection’s innovative iteration of both explicit and implicit identity. ; )

“Land,” Scot surmised, “would feel, I suppose, no allegiance to a stewartry unable to elicit from its denizens poetry inspired by isthmus’ iconalatry.”

“Land—green in lea and grey at bay—arouses spouses arriving from away,” per what captain did say.

“Land ice has retreated,” sighed the arrived rock climber as heeded.

“Well, it is not map’s planned land—new, zeal of appeal for realm of real feel…but, for some reason,” depthed Deirdre, “I know this is where to kneel.”

“Port’s importance has always been this:” lit Mick, “Where sea meets land—fin or begin as it may kin—ever carries across the unsettled—again and again.” ; )

Yes, Larka The Parka’s search for a hibernation hole is her schwerpunkt,

Grounded in squirreling away self for slumber—even if lower-bunked,

But she must remember to nibble enough nosh so that entrant is chunked—

And she may need green to pay off squatters if find is already chipmunked. ; )