Yes, children, the mercury has rocketed to 7 degrees above zero! Get out your flip flops and sunscreen, let's go to the beach. Oh, wait, it's snowing. Maybe later.
Thanks for the idea, Jenny. That's a perfect way to make the last line work. I'm ripping out unnecessary words today and I'll try out your solution. Thanks again.
January 16--Paul Cezanne The Dream of the Poet or The Kiss of the Muse. Crumpled and despairing he sits at his desk. His paper is creased and smudged; his pen flung into a corner. He stares out his window hoping for inspiration or maybe a reprieve. Words won't come. His brain feels dry, devoid of ideas. The lyrical dance of syllable and rhyme has halted and he is sure it will never start again. Just at the depth of his despair when he is ready to burn his books and break his pen she comes back. She lays her cool sweet lips upon his brow and the words begin to flow.
Not bad. Not great, but serviceable. Limber up your shovels. Since it's not sunny and frigid, it's snowing. It's always something, isn't it?
--Barbara
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