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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. 

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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.