One brittle Sunday morning,
Cracked open like the door by
Frigid wind, a steaming mug
Of cocoa warms my fragile

Hands. An insect, feathery
And thin, alights upon the
Chipped edge of my mug, awed by
The contents within, and makes

Its way inside. No longer
Steaming but flaming, my drink
Blisters my worn hands, falls, and
With a shatter, births a land

Fit for crippled, wind-torn wings.

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