(In the winter of 1974 I received a sheet of onion paper taped to which was a newspaper photo of Norman Rockwell with his arm around Colonel Sanders and two clippings that read, respectively: FARAWAY PLACES COME HOME and National Foundation for Sudden Infant Death, Inc. -- Hūm)
The snow and I send Thanksgiving greetings and give thanks for what is. Life is so settled for the winter: my world, not being sanforized, has shrunk to the proportions of a job, bike riding, and, soon, some skiing. Dabbling into this that and tither.
A climb up the rabbit hole every once in a while and a peek into the real world, then a scuttle down to the underground warmth. Huddled together at the edge of a mountain, burning a candle and cursing the wind. Why not let the candle be and so forget the wind? I don't know. What would I do then? Curse the darkness, I suppose.
Go gentle into that good night.