He's been there since summer, stuck between the panes,
now a still, black blight against the snow.

My eye feigns a resurrection– sure I have seen
a hinged leg twitch, but no.

Brave in his faith in Whatever had
saved him from so many
swatters and papers,

he crawled into 
a mirage
of sky.

– Teresa Kiplinger

 See how I incorporate my poetry into my jewelry work here.

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