One morning
Walking into my backyard,
A thin strand of spider silk tangles my legs
With a quiet snap,

Its frustrated author glares
From a high corner nearby.

In late June, when my stone birdbath developed a
deep crack, I recycled it into a fairy garden.

These winter nights know not your gentle touch,
Your fingers running wild against your skin.
My darling, this I ask (think it not much:)
To be your partner, privy to your sin.

Did I just pull a George R. R. Martin?

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