wintertide
glissading down
steep mountainsides . . .
we are horses
with our snowy tails
streaming in the wind
every year
winter casts its spell . . .
like children,
we are bewitched anew
by the signature of snow
the length of night
yet again,
sleep eludes me . . .
an owl and I
ponder the eternal
question of identity
insomnia . . .
mice at play
inside
the thin walls
of my dreams
girlhood
we brew tea
from the dark leaves
of cat's whiskers
but first, you tickle me
with their stamens
we chase
each other across
cloud shadows,
nothing under our feet
but this prairie sky
we once played
in this tangled garden,
enchanted
by the quiet fireworks
of bergamot and butterflies
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