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

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

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

he trapped himself trying
for a mirage of sky. 

– Teresa Kiplinger

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

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