Postulation amid patches of posies presents postured palms—one of passive pronation and the other of pensive supination, staging a scene of sensed serenity within speckled sea of spring’s springs. ; )

As nomothetic nuances of neon buzz, her idiographic inquiries into identity dive. ; )

When dark feels incarnate, light, albeit uncarnate, feels like welcoming arms. ; )

Somewhat late for twelfthtide’s original rush, I am finally here—your kingly, regally-robed Christmas thrush. Soooo, looks like I am left to adoring local church’s nativity-scene plush, which, I suppose, means no need to nobly gush at level hush. ; )

Punxsutawney Phil has fallen ill—believe it or not, he is of the quinquagenarian lot and it seems likely such case must be connected to those men in top hats. So, with less than a month to prepare for the day of seasonal flair, I shall practice which scream goes with each screen—with the chirpy one tending towards spring since sounds of delight are for grounds green rather than fields of ice cream. ; )