The door, once shut, is now ajar
and no one here has turned the knob;
such secrets trapped have loosed themselves.
Fault not Pandora -- she's no key.

- - -

My friend the wombat trundles 'round,
his nose a-snuffle at the ground.
Not one for combat is he known --
he's less a scuffle than a stone.

- - -

Coughing, sneezing, sickness settled
in for winter, keeping me from
sleeping, speaking; give me respite
from these fluent cold diseases.

- - -

Over, under, through the loop and
pin it down with pointed tact;
any ends, once loose, now formal,
keeping heads to shoulders tied.

- - -

TMK 23jan2010