Spread low on the horizon,
stars stretched on a rack of sky.
Star-crossed lovers that we were,
standing sternward at midnight,
sea spray whispering our names,
sleep sacrificed for starlight,
secure in each other’s grasp.
And then there were three puppies as well…We’ll see how many are still there at the end of the week. There were dozens more of each. I don’t know what is making me so sentimental but yes, I left in tears…Is it age or isolation?
A doughty old bird, he strides and he gobbles over the barnyard and over the cobbles. While other birds scatter and rush out of sight into foggy day vapors or into the night, he has not a fear of this Thanksgiving blight with its motifs of turkey and dressing and pie, for year after year, he just seems to get by. Stretching his neck out toward all on his beat, he is lord of the manor and too tough to eat.
Lower the pinãta. Bring the party to a halt. Cease your roar of protest, for I’m not the one at fault for curbing your frivolity and quashing all our fun. If you need a scapegoat, Father Christmas is the one who turned Rudolph out to pasture and retired his sleigh to blocks.
while Gaea, Christ and Santa Claus have some major talks. The Christ child won’t be crowned this year. The elves are on vacation. Santa will stay a figment of your imagination. The only Santas left are those “Ho ho” ing for their wages. St. Nicholas gave up the ghost when we put kids in cages.
He sold off Donner and Blitzen when we turned our backs on nature’s other creatures: the elephants and yaks. All the endangered creatures in the forest and the seas, those crippled by pollution, global warming and disease. He closed up his workshop as we squandered nature’s gifts, deserted the North Pole as the glaciers formed their rifts. Now bad boys won’t get presents and, alas, the good ones either. We’re being banished to our rooms while nature takes a breather. Will Christmas come another year? I guess we’ll wait and see. Next year will we be perched on or turned over Santa’s knee?