Winterweary bones
know nothing but the chill
of another year beginning,
when everyone knows
the last one is still clinging
like last year’s dead blossoms
on the skeleton of a magnolia,
keeping the new blooms
from being able to breathe.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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