Father Winter has blessed us
with a superfluous barrage of
dancing ice crystals from above.
 

Skylight,
as dentine as the
hair of the ancient storytellers and bards,
as dentine as the
eyes of one who has seen the most presentable of truths,
as dentine as a
face of fright.
 

Catch a quilt-patterned flake
on your silver tongue of
glass-protected knowledge.
 

Listening to you speak
whilst the Wheeling wind
howls ferociously is like the
daunting task of gaining valid factoids.
 

Amidst the Blizzard of 2000,
there we were, my dear peers,
creating an angelic military
on the neighborhood concrete.
 

Your observations of clear white skies
were the scientific notions we
both needed on this wintry day.
 

Fellow Wendigo waits for
next victim in the stillness of
Simon’s silence.
 

Every holiday legend awakens
for an annual visit to the
decent-hearted and able-minded.
 

Could not believe it when
spring’s cornered shadow completely
melted my tender heart of chains. 

​