I took my brainchild out for a walk.

When we got to the place

where we were going,

an altar on a hill,

I took a letter opener

and with it tore open the poem's heart.

I examined the precious organ

and grew cold as night

at the sight of my own image

frozen in its center.

(Twisters are pithy, self-contained compositions of exactly 140 characters, including spaces).

In April two lovers sit on a park bench. Pigeons pivot overhead. Kernels of corn at the lovers’ feet. Not just pigeons does their love feed.

During the summer months, their love is like the red of roses: vibrant, brilliant. If only roses didn’t have thorns and flowers didn’t wilt

Autumn, and lovers meet. The same park bench, now dense with fallen leaves. She can barely lift her withered hand. Few pigeons left to feed.

When winter comes, the pigeons have gone and only one lover sits. The park is gloomy, the trees are bare--as empty as his heart without her.