Cottagecore

with the power vested in me by the frosted cobblestones

It’s 6:00 am in a Bed & Breakfast in Innsbruck,
Our journey halted by tall snowmen standing on guard.

Climbing stairs to a snow-betrothed cottage, peering through grid windows, Seemingly the sharp trees & towering lampposts are guests to the weather-wedded boulevard.

A hearth room with four chairs and a periodical-ridden coffee table, Guesting a hot cocoa mustached lodger in woolen-hooded feet. Sleuthing across the wooden floor
To a library ridden with folklore and fable.

The grooves of a vintage record player have Sinatra now on cue,
Two pairs of fleece-silenced feet scurry along, smiling, mouthing,
“and then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like ‘I love you’.”

It’s 6:00 am in a Bed & Breakfast in Innsbruck,

I ponder over the woods I stopped by in this evening of Frost. The engine bellowed. I paused and glanced for one last look.