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My kids go to a hippy-dippy school. That is quite alright with me. Today, at the Festival of Lights, they watched a magical puppet show that lasted about twenty minutes and had the whole early childhood school mesmerized, and then went on a lantern walk in the biting cold, through a labyrinth of evergreen boughs. It was exactly the spiritual experience we signed up for, and I am grateful to my girls’ teachers for making their childhood last as long as possible.

After I wrote a lantern poem. I have an innate fondness for lanterns, because of how I was raised with kerosene and the smooth yellow light. I’m going to write a lantern poem and then go spend some time with HP, perhaps with football, perhaps without. Who knows.

The Lantern Walk

It is good to hold a lantern and use the light to extinguish the news, of ebola, and of refugee babies, and fracking, and profit, and politics. It is good to hold the light in hand and put flame to wick to send the light bouncing off the globe. Good to put the reflection to good use, putting out the streetlights and headlights, high beams and low. Holding the light in hand, swinging to the cadence of your walk, back and forth with the flicker buffeted from the wind by glass, is the amber time-machine. By this light we could become wee once more, in a nightdress, the glow held high to bright up the grass in the dark, illuminating intrepid toes in the glinting frost, determined and searching for the last of the light fairies and garden gnomes, before the beginning of their great migration into the cloak of the Earth and the great sleep prophesied by a cold and fast wind.

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I had this whole Cormac McCarthy moment today at the lantern walk  (“we carry the fire” and what not), but I didn’t have that poem in me. What I had in me was the cheesiness. That’s okay by me. I sometimes go happy. Go happy, poemfriends, this Saturday.  🙂

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