Snowflakes, and charcoal sketched clouds soufflé the sky. 

 

 

 

“Darling! Please shovel the front porch,” I say to no one as my hand lazily grips
the handle, carelessly moving the shovel.

 

• I watch the street. There are suits
  and skirts straddling terrorist chic back packs, and tiny children dressed in
  wool coats with tied hats prance behind Mums, on their Saturday shop day.

 

• SOME musicians are playing on
  one corner on the other side of the street is the Symphony Hall, squared between a paste
  up pattern of colorful ancient theaters, opening doors to restaurant windows  lit with
  candles, perfumed air, and smoky pubs pack and push blokes and chicks.
• I
  am in London.
• In my home; in Santa Fe, New
  Mexico a muscle of winter has squeezed the
  noise of street life.
• I chose between ribbons and bows sipping and sliding down Palace Avenue,
  to eat Chocolate pumpkin cream in zippered toes, on the rug, next to the
  fireplace.

  Huggin and kissin the Prancers and Dancers of my gang

  ITS HOLIDAY SEASON SO  SWING, SING, ROCK, WAVE,
  SMILE, GIVE

• BAKE, READ, CREATE,
• KISS CHRISTMAS.