Monday, November 30, 2009

Hey! Reachy-outy Up There Thing!

Stripped of their crowns of leaves, on a summery winter’s morn, the trees reveal their secrets.

Every branch, every twig, every whitherslungthing — always awayto to somewhere, somewhere, somewhere.

And the rooty toots — just the same, I suppose. I haven’t the heart to dig them up.

They’re like the vegetable equivalent of horses — and let’s not forget, each Midsummer, from the best of them, unicorns bound.

But we have plenty of these, don’t we? Us?

Unseen filaments of possibility, so insubstantial it seems sometimes they’re made of almost nothing.

Yet these are the best of all the skyward, earthward, anywhereward flings of mortal luminesticus.

And though they may meet in darkest gloom on occasion* with the most abhorrent of life’s shibboleths, I sign myself up as a willing witness to their fleeting flail.

On a brighter note, the countdown to Christmas begins tomorrow.

Bring on the music! The dancing ladyboys! The gruffly-spoken ex-wrestler convicts whose dreams of release from this mortal existence speak so crisply to every troubled post-Eurythmics era bemuscled poncey boy.


Forget the last one.

Let’s have some Best Christmas of the Decade kind of stuff. Right here, right now, on the YULE RUG.

Reminiscing, paying forward — or just the heck on here.

I don’t care.


* On occasion...of your doom!


Kiersten White said...

This was lovely and ridiculous. A combination only you seem to be able to pull off. And with such aplomb! Also, anywhereward is my new favorite word.

Whirlochre said...

It's a goodie, isn't it?

And thanks for reminding me about aplomb — I'm making achristmaspie later today.

sylvia said...

You appear not to have mentioned mince pies. Was this a deliberate omission?