Snowflakes. Spinning and twirling and pirouetting.
Like the sheep that appear on the edge of my dreams.
“I’m a sheep,” I declared. “Baa.”
“That’s pathetic, child,” she scoffed.
She taught me how to speak sheep.
That night, flocks of white grazed on grass sprouting from
the overlap of wake and dream.
“Baa baaaaah baaaa ba.”
“Baaahh baa bahhaa baaa.”
What are you doing?
We’re eating up the anxiety haunting your sleep.
The year of the ox started with sweet snow.