Walking home on this post-Christmas pre-New Year’s December day, I saw:

in the bare branches of a shrub –  a tiny scarecrow made of twine and fabric on a slender wooden stick, something you might use as a whimsical accent in a fall container garden

crushed in the road – a neon purple plastic spider ring like children buy for a quarter from the toy vending machines in the department store lobby around Halloween

Why did these creatures choose this day of all days to come creeping out of whatever under-baseboard secret kingdom obsolete holiday decorations dwell in? Perhaps some myopic felt Easter bunny stuck its head out of a hidden burrow, mistook the glitter of Christmas lights for the twinkling of stars, and sounded the all-clear – “Christmas is over! Come out! Come out!”

I felt sorry for the poor things, the way I feel when I see the crocuses pushing up their heads during those rare warm spells in February. “Shhhh, go back to sleep. Winter isn’t over yet.”

Poetry, Writing
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Join the conversation! 2 Comments

  1. Beautifully written! Except…
    Crocuses are the harbingers of spring, The sign that there is a light at the end of the tunnel, and it’s the sun. They’re the scouts of a botanical army reporting back to a vast underground network that brighter days and warmer soils are in fact coming. Announcing to their dark companions that its time to begin to rise and take over the lands (like zombies). You shouldn’t feel sorry when you see crocuses. You should run.


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