Kid: Bossyboots.
Mama: Hah, bossypants!
Kid: But bossyboots uses alliteration.
Mama: Smartypants!
Kid: Smartysocks.



Fingering bone-deep contusions
Signs warn caution, bumps ahead
Or you’re dead.
Abiding (no hiding)
Source of burnt-brown dread
Broiling with worried wonder,
Ashes turned under.

Margaret unearthed the Dunbar stanza introduced by Kerry for PLAY IT AGAIN. Again!



My fall was so gradual
it went unnoticed, like crows-feet eyes
not fond of mirrors or the slow
leak of hours requiring an extra day
come February. Crows can fly
and we manipulate time to recognize
seasons but that woman is unfamiliar,
the one in the sweater, arms crossed
against October chill. After twelve
leap-years you’d think I’d sprout wings,
take a shot at the sun, evolve. But I’m
no leapling and prefer the shade,
leggy and shorn of blooms. Plus,
it’s simpler to languish than to fly
and be recognized, belly feathers
to frostbitten ground, a fallen woman
beckoning inward for returned Grace.

Late entry for Karin's prompt to the Real Toads: FALLING INTO LINES