Winter Stews and Statuary.
Jabs~
I have fallen asleep among the poppies of another tale, and lost my ribbon, and my stockings. My feet are covered in snow. Toes protrude like blueberries in the fields. The red poppies are white, the cherry trees ice. The Mock Turtle had lumbered with his autumn-leaf steps to nudge me awake, and now stands a jade sculpure of winter frost. His eyes are so mournful. The blades of grass are tiny katanas, making loving cuts in my calves as dreams of field-mice and ratatouille dance in my skin. O the eggplant, and the peppers! O the tears of the infinite onion pooling purple on the scarlet skin of stewed tomatoes! The sibilant cries of mouse-haunches and whiskers like quills! The existential angst of vegetable stock! The despair of corn and bean! I cannot, my love, but stay here, turning to snow, watching a scrim of ice form on the soup. Softly,Alice
