Between the beanfeast and a mean frost,

Ilsa paused—

Alone—

And felt more invited and welcomed

Than whence she had come.

As flakes kissed hellos,

She felt warmthfulness

By neither muffs,

Nor scarf,

Nor coat,

But by an open air

Waiting to be breathed

‘Fore exhales whispered

Wistful stories

As wondering wisps

To evening’s branched,

Bending ears. ; )

By couraged will, one may pass a merestone.

By persistence, one may progress alone.

Be aware, though, of direction signs shown

And keep forwarding forth if all is known;

Else, step a turn before goal becomes groan. ; )

Would a mighty trunk see

Fallen leaves as piune?

For they do lack the might

To uphold branches right

And, re support’s avail,

They oft respond in bail.

But, in that time unseen,

Just missed as most serene,

Purpose appears as light

And fragile bears no fright

As drop’s dance dynamic

Uplifts storied static. ; )

When those doggone makebates continue to cease not turning fluff to frizz,

The catnapper makes bed an antidote—a pause for paws—to rough’s biz. ; )

Inchoation of inspiration may be a right moment’s seen view;

Or, it could be an innate inkling shuttered from all else but the you. ; )