See-sawing in the breeze-
the thin crusted line
between the disparate worlds
is trodden down by soft petal-toed feet,
on this day of horrors.
On other dark hued days preceding.
On the long oily chain of days following.
Said but not spread,
only to whim
and not design.
It is not bright,
not suffiently warm enough to
gnaw holes in the freezing ice that covers everything.
moments like diseased flies in amber.
Find oneself in a familiar, previously trodden down spot?
Say welcome back Mrs.