Sans insulation,

Absent Inuit-ion,

Free of fiery pop-crackles,

Bereft of blanket,

Sub-sunned,

Clear of cuddling,

Artful air ignites, for me, inviting incalescence. ; )

Please, both dearest and most dashing dark-winged duck, dehort yourself from envying the gallant, gorgeous goose—for ugliness besmears only those who cannot see the resplendence in their own premier plumage. ; )

Life shutters.

Push.

Open.

Exhale spirit alamort.

Inhale light’s support.

Breathe as breeze,

Until cogitations cool,

And hope flutters. ; )

“See, turtle?”

“You solved Olive’s riddley!”

“Up-popped a new guinguette where Terri had panned about *that* soup to forget.”

“So, turtle, now, you can out-shell for a drink that will merit no eye-stink!” : )

Reflections have yet to refill my soul’s vessel with either hope or peace. Perhaps, I am a lagena, no longer utilitarian, relegated as a relic, meant for a museum—where I sit not even as an ephemeral muse of “hmmm”s, but, rather, only as one musing numbs. ; )