A Wild Woman Drunk on Ink Always Writes Her Wicked Tell-Tale Heart Out

always trust
a tongue drunk on ink
to tell tales

I shall be mostly off line for the next week and a half. But worried not, my Luvs, I will post on Instagram every now and again. And I’m leaving you a creative mission to keep your brain-housing-group busy while I’m away.

Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to leave a comment sharing one thing (all right, you can share three *I, too, am greedy*) that happens to a wild, sexy, intelligent, funny, extremely modest writer while she travels.

Remember, my Wicked Luvs, your imagination is the limit… and everyone knows Lady Imagination is in total lust with Mistress Borders Unknown.

I plan to write the tale during the trip back. So, try to have your suggestions in by next Friday (Feb 23rd). Read you in a day (or 13). Be wild and wicked while I’m gone. Then tell me about it.

really, an Ink Woman is always quite loose with her tales

Under Winter’s Shroud

The woods wear brown, hints of green, and a scent I can never describe to anyone who hasn’t tasted snow as it melts under the sun… My toes dream of dandelions and grass that know blades are manmade nightmares. In my blood, Nature sings her everchanging song.

fall’s bones rot
under winter’s shroud,
feeding spring

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the wee notes…
– Many deliciously wild souls, in the Northern Hemisphere, are celebrating The Promise of Spring (or Imbolc or Brigid’s Day or… a few other names). Persephone isn’t back from the Underworld yet, but… spring’s coming.
– for Hedgewitch’s Friday 55 and Poets United.