Hear Ye. Hear Ye. Here we
propose to posit prose poetry,
forming forms of continuous connectivity
to communicate considerable
contemplative reflectivity.

Simply put, we pose this where
prose poetry is what you'll hear
when wondering where the time went
while reading such rhyme wonderments
as oft we've wrought, and revealed thusly;
each whit of wit written Hieronymously.

Frost Bit

I love someone who throws snow balls.
She holds them dear, snow balls, and all
she knows of snow ball holding goes
into this, and into her throws
of love, without gloves on hand.

Frost bit, we sit. Snowy Evening planned.