6:30 p.m.: Snow on the ground, soup in the belly, blanket around the toesies. It’s hunker-down season, for real.

I wrote a really bad poem about lions and winter and such many years ago. Maybe I won’t post it now, let’s go with something lighter for the first post.

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sunrise sweetheart

Laughter farts at six a.m.
crisp and nose pinching
when my head is curled
by the covered cave
of your body.