Duckling of sea and land, curiously cupped by caring hand, expiscates an escape not great, but grand. ; )

She longs for a spontaneous bloke,

Whether proper or a picaroon,

So she charms her potential suitors—

Bending desires like a little spoon. ; )

Dear aromatic cup of French roast for which drinking is meant,

You may as well be at the opposite end of an arpent—

For sipping you would require both raising and tilting the head,

Which is currently glued to snoozes a la dead lead on bed. ; )

Upon eve’s snowy esses,

Senses see what seem to be ice-blinks—

House-like lights guiding skating wheels—

Homeward bound via gelid rinks. ; )

Rebuffs stithy heart’s defenses,

As iciness becomes expected.

Then, a wave, instead of crashing,

Strokes hope—

Melting will back into wonder. ; )