The world is swathed in snow, but — for once — the wind is still.

I try writing exercises to spark creativity, but what I produce instead is bad haiku.

Trees wear white garments
woven on a snowy loom.
Silence. A hawk cries.

Carapace gleaming,
an exiled beetle bumbles
in a warm corner.

And then there’s this truly tortured haiku:

Mere glass yet staunch guard,
the window staves cold, wards heat,
lets light, stands sentry.

Nope. No more poetry. It’s fiction for me today.

And the world sighs in relief. 😉