“Well, I will be, Wallaby!”

“Caves hold pockets of cold.”

“Ditches dug by a fossor’s tug field snitches smug.”

“Glasses temper tantrums of lasses.”

“Bags break and spill due to overfill.”

“Igloos suppress blue hues.”

“Blanket forts muffle boorish retorts.”

“And, then, there is you and your pouch—

A comfort to ouch,

A security vouch,

A napping couch,

A placation to grouch,

As posh as a nouch,

A love like a smouch,“

“What a warmthful wonder to rendezvous with you, my brilliant Wallaroo!” ; )

Most believe heard pheals are all barks and no bites of the wintry winds, but, alas, in truth, the cries emit from freezing flora, stripped to their starkest selves, left to survive via their strengths that do not kill. ; )

As Lizzy lies twixt stone and its clone, she refuses to let arriving ave write, upon where it hopes to alight, her exequial epitaph—for sanctuary cave, a hole of hope, purposefully precludes obituary page. ; )

Mediterranean mariners play their first monomyths, overcoming whipping waves and belligerent barracudas with the aid of both turtle tutors and buoying boards. Then, returning with only sand infestation in lieu of salvation, pups lie on their day’s deeds—until the sea calls again upon the lair of the lion to lend more pages to ocean’s Odyssean story. ; )

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. ; )