A Weed on The Curb

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #247 . it's the season of putting away the angels we have tissue paper for the delicate wings but the solid bodies get a brief sheet paint and plaster chips are the years' way, the mouse way, of marking use the putting out and the taking down any accidents that happen in season store remembrance in the small holes bitten in the sacred while it looks the other way -- Chrissa

 Sharing with The Sunday Muse #246 , in the spirit of the Very Serious Super Mario from SNL. Ann climbs to the roofline She's never been this big, never this strong. Heather's not a doll but Ann holds her close. The lake is tasting the house, considering; Dry land was such a new thing, once. Ann keeps an arm on Heather, looks down. The lake doesn't speak or its thousand tongues Chuckle like birdsong, whine like chitin bows. Ann speaks Heather's tongue and one other. She calls to the patchwork lands around I am your daughter, I have your child.

 Sharing with The Sunday Muse #245 .  Let us burn the world.  Burnish it ash and ember!  Let gold run like water Gild the beaches  with precious oceans. Let us hold the world Close around our flame. Let what remains Gilded by our warmth, sustain. Spring cleaning season is here and I'm looking at the pile of writing projects and wondering what needs to be filed and what needs to be expanded and finished. Honestly, with the increase in censorship in the US, writing and reading feels pretty pointless right now. Maybe everything needs to be filed and I  should go sit with the birds. :)  -- Chrissa