Love Poultice

Ennui with particular flavor of nightingale. O, the black plumes from the chimneys drift like a note from a wine bottle in an open window. The wind has taken the recipe card and now the rain is spotting the ink. I guess, love, it’s dueling banjos until our blood thins enough to reverse its flow, and time’s rooster tail settles its plume of mist upon the valley where our little nest laid an egg.