The coats of glistening white arms…
bitter breaths, loosing charm.
Tapped buckets of luck
running in place on lakes of thin ice.
From fragile to frigid
cynicism’s roll of the dice.
Oh, the burden of quaint to acquainted New Hampshire towns.
Of the visitors who come but never go.
Of permanent villagers affixed in a murky modest snow.
Rumor has it…
IT takes a village to pillage
Rumor has it
Mother has gone asunder…
leaving room for doubtful wonder.