The day, sunny this morning, has turned cold and dreary, like any good holiday in the city. No snow here, though. I doubt half the residents even know the word. There's been such little communication from outside cities for so long that knowledge of other climates has passed beyond common knowledge. I know what it is because Tessian, Nemus's father, took it into his head to give all of us orphans what he considered a proper education. From him, I know that snow used to be expected on this holiday, though even the holiday's name has been lost to time. People still celebrate, though.
It's another poem. It’s short. Go on and read it. :)
About a tree and a lamppost.*
*Personification was used in the making of this poem.
The mind is a dangerous place.
A snapshot of a life.
A vignette of a sixteen-year-old who babysits his younger siblings over the holidays.