Winter. 

 

Cold, brittle, fickle, frost. The wind, a voice to remind me, how small I am. The clothesline bashes against the window and the spits of rain begin to fall. The chill outside drains the streets of life. I wonder where the street cats go when the winter sets in? When the air bites back with a fist. I like the chill, and the nakedness of the world, when the people run inside. It feels safe. 

 

Words are wishes. 

 

Wishes, dish wishes, with witches, inside your insides, out.

Words are wishes, and witches are switches and glitches of stitches worn out.