Dancing sprites jitter alongside Death as he sweeps the purple plain with his discount scythe. From whom much is given, much will be extracted. The vineyards are choking on weeds taller than me. In the wine press, remnants of what were once promises, pulpy and thin. In my housework dress of cozy, comfy, suburban glamor, sleek thoughts of collecting glasses. The sprite looms over the landscape of life like a giant, pulsating windmill. Death is rational, is weighing his options, is looking at me.
Miniature Moon 