Word to the Winter Wren:
You bounce and chat with rotund roundness, my imagination cups your smallness in my palm, secure and warm. One hand envelops the other. Gently. Your feathers are soft and beautiful, as is your music. Will you sing your sweet melody one last time? Oh, how my invitation rests upon the eleventh-hour, forgive my thirst. As you stand on Auggie’s stage amongst Lil’ Red’s pinecone beads, I’ll endorse his offerings and bid you a fond farewell, too, for I know the way out has arrived. No curtain call is without reservation and October isn’t for the sluggish. Are you packed and ready to go? Where benevolence resides, all things in time, but if Auggie holds the caption, winter possesses the period. Good fortune and easy travels, little one.
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