Lena
and sweetest in the gale is heard
and sore must be the storm
and sore must be the storm
Mittens made a face. It might’ve been difficult to parse or gauge, based on its stony fixtures and not much else, but Lena could feel the remnants of mischief and menace rampaging through, and she sighed while it seemed to gear up for another round. Snagging it within her palm, she pondered tying a scarf around its neck and utilizing it as some sort of leash.
Relieved the artwork hadn’t been damaged beyond some water drops, she peered back at the depictions. “It still looks quite lovely. Were you simply inspired by the surroundings?” Her eyes flickered over the image, never quite artistic, but willing to strive in her own right. When his hand moved out though, in a semblance of introductions, she stepped back, extending her own (the one not occupied by a wayward snowball). “Lena.”
Relieved the artwork hadn’t been damaged beyond some water drops, she peered back at the depictions. “It still looks quite lovely. Were you simply inspired by the surroundings?” Her eyes flickered over the image, never quite artistic, but willing to strive in her own right. When his hand moved out though, in a semblance of introductions, she stepped back, extending her own (the one not occupied by a wayward snowball). “Lena.”
that could abash the little bird
that kept so many warm
that kept so many warm
