BLEAK DECEMBER

As you peruse my paragraphs here, please try to tolerate my impulsiveness. I tend to flit from one subject to the next with no apparent continuity. Stay loose dear reader. You’ll get used to it! Who among Ye conforms to a standard format anyway?

Not to mention, there is some insistent ,sad, uncertain software that sees fit to re-arrange the spacing in some of my poems. ANNOYING! Yes, spell check is convenient, but other software seems to assume that the writer is a mindless idiot. I will submit that the software is correct to an extent, but can it cut me some slack? How do I tell software that I’m not as dumb as I look?!

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It is the year 2018. It is in the bleak December and each separate dying ember writhes its ghost upon the floor. (Pardon the Poe paraphrase.) The News would have us believe that this is to be the Mother of all Winter’s. … with a Polar Vortex arousal forthcoming.

This, of course, is why we go to Florida for a couple of months. At least a goodly chunk of Winter is occluded from our routine. With any rotten luck, however, come early March when we get home, it’ll snow like the Hammers of Hell. It did last year.

What is the Polar Vortex, anyway? Not that I am a mass of knowledge on the matter, but I do know that there are two of them, one at the North Pole, one at the South. They are massive areas of low pressure that are stationary, with counter-clockwise winds that effectively retain the frigid air to the poles. Doctors prescribe either Vortex as an antidote for those who chronically purport global warming.

I rotate my writing recliner to face the inspired view. Behold! The frost is, in fact, on the pumpkin. The horses are still grazing the whitened grass. Cold nights will soon wane away whatever of it is left and Winter will concentrate on being Winter. Nature naps for a notable pause.

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