currently querying: The Light at the End of the World

Ode to March

It seems this year I do not know if the snow will ever go. In March it sits here like a brick (not a brick like “you’re a brick, Dick”), I mean a brick like bricks and mortar, the kind used in the Latin Quarter. Winter hard and cold and …

Just Write {2}

When I step out of the car, the wind takes my breath away. I fumble with my hood, but the closure is too tight, so I yank my right mitten off with my teeth and unzip my coat a bit. Holy Freaking gawd, it’s cold. I can’t get the hood up with …