Snow has come early in the wishes of children, in the letters of cripples—some crying to be carried by Dancer over the moon. Some bald men wish for hair, some for glamour, some simply for their past, nearly all wish for women, or for something shaped from themselves to darn stockings under the tree. What do I wish for? For it to be over, the cherry apple faces, the witch dolls suckled at their breasts without a hint of milk, the arthritic elves, setting their sights by the moon, to be gone. I would make friends with the shadows, toast old Mrs. Claus with wine made from the roots of hazelwood, dust the past away with a bright peacock feather.
Posted on: Wed, 26 Jun 2013 00:20:59 +0000
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