“Forsythia?” Forsythia? Forced into view. Forced into you, existence through, budding branches reaching up into the sky. Growing up, past failed forecasts of blizzards. Weather wizards. Meteorologists ceding to botanists. Seeding pots with this, packet potential. Weeding rows of…
“Inhibited” All of the words. An expressive and bitter, “No!” A sigh. A wrinkled nose, from unkempt nose hairs. The minute my hands are involved with dish soap. Doggie scratching on the door. The mail carrier ripped important correspondence shoving it into…
Jack Lost believes that new fallen snow contains the answers to prayers.
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