Fairy Tales
The house is cold.
Windsweeps whistle in chimneys,
showering hearths with blackest melodies.
The house is cold.
Windsweeps whistle in chimneys,
showering hearths with blackest melodies.
Our shivering hearts tell Cinderella stories
while, underneath us, the rats
roll a pumpkin around in the cellar.
God, mother!
Speak true.
Tia Azulay 07Mar94-10Nov96
Copyright © 1994, 2006 Tia Azulay
Mother, I am scared of these mice. They sound so sure of themselves. Are you sure they aren’t rats?
Come to think of it, in my mind’s eye they are actually rats. My rodent exposure level at the time of the original writing was very low. Certainly the mingy mice that my cats regularly bring in now wouldn’t be able to budge a pumpkin, even with a coordinated group effort. Rats it is!
Hey depends on the size of the pumpkin – it might have been a youngling!
Nice picure T
Al
I am reflecting on the blackest melody and what this might be like when it reaches my ears. What sounds might emerge from the dark corridors of my unconscious? May I learn to love them all!