Solstice
What brittle, keening wind is this that stings our ears and dulls the fingers? The coachman of the foulest season whose kiss lingers on bloodless, frigid lips. We’ll soon be warmed by your celestial caress that will cause to pivot the great, grand chart that is infinity and space and all things vast and misunderstood.
Christmas Day
His nine-year-old loved her nursery, and she loved climbing trees, and reading her books about history, flowers, and trains. And she loved her father, and he thought of her as he buffed his black Oxford brogues from Loakes in London. And he thought of her again when he ironed his shirt, how she smiled when