The holiday season tip-toes toward you-- reddish leafy nights and trick or treaters in costumes with candy bags-- fog creeps across children's shoes and demonic cackles and ghostly boos by screen doors and before you have time to give candy away, Thanksgiving stands before you: fat basted turkeys, football games and eggnog-- families stroll the walkway, passed pockets of snowdrift that surround the sunken black toothed pumpkin named Bob but, inside the warmly lit living-room you eat, linger, and dream-- strung out on the couch thoughtless and satiated and when you leave, Christmas advertisements fly like Kamikaze's and Christmas classics inundate the airwaves; to the attic you bound with your pilgrim hats and turkey mats and down, one stepping your boxes of red, green and white ornaments and lights into living-rooms and windows, soon the sweet scent of pine and the crinkle of wrapping paper fill the air and the joy is immense and fleeting as the countdown begins, the Times Square ball, marking the passage of time and it drops. You wake in the fatigued hangover of the new year and the holidays have slipped away. You will then spiral along in the cold dark abyss of winter, waiting profoundly for spring. Good night.
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