Winter scatters moth bones.
For a while,
it refreshes the turgid and lax.
Then the chill legs of small dancers
pirouette over warm bodies.
Flesh recoils, lungs curl around
each breath.
Hedgerows offer their huddled masses,
to the underground and hidden.
The light is going color blind,
Wind-crones whip rabbit hair
into wickiups
for the newly dying.
Categories:
wickiups, poetry,
Form: Blank verse
Well-established wonder-stricken wayfarers will work with wizards,
who worry worm-eating warblers will wander by with Wyandottes.
Witchdoctors wallowing with Weiss beer will widen willowy wonky
widow’s walks. Who? What? When? Why? Why not?
Wonderful wearisome woolly Willies whose wrinkly wiggly whatchamacallits will weigh whizzing wingfish whipped wildly within Widow Williams’s whirlybird’s window wells. Who? What? When? Why? Why not?
Why wayfarers? Witches? Wizards, Wolverines? Witchdoctors? Well, woks, workbenches, wobbly wickiups, were wildly wanting whiffle ball’s wishful wildcats, which is why we were willing to wind up wolves, women, and worst-case woodcocks into worthy wayfarer’s winter wineglass widgets within wonderful, wise-cracking
woodland’s wee-folk who reside within wizardly wigwams.
Who? What? When? Where? Why? Why not?
Warm whoopee wayfarers welcome willing witchdoctor's whizzing whatchamcallits on Wednesdays with wonderfulness.
Categories:
wickiups, word play,
Form: Alliteration