Dressing For The Winter Dance Herb Eaton
aren’t we awaiting The Winter Dance,
the enchantment of an attending beauty
accompanying our follies and awkward gyrations
up marvelous stairs, isolated
from the cold?
isn’t it possible, beyond the
frivolity of summer’s silky, sultry, streaming
green jungle beats,
that we shall acquire a less supple outer garment
to humbly clothe
aren’t we all a bit distorted, maybe nervous and convoluted,
doing a graceless dance
while arranging our new
dull and wrinkled layers?
won’t it be nice, The Dance Hall,
as our crinkling outer wraps are shed,
lead by an honor guard past our
pretty and petty pride,
thankful to be a living corsage
to serve Beauty.
isn’t it best to joyfully dance
until the tune ends?
It is just a big rock, a really big rock, far away. Travelers have returned reporting that it is a bit shy of gravity (and has a dark side), its’ damaged by millions of insults (serendipitous smaller rocks wheeling in from space). It gets blamed for the behavior of were-wolves and other fugitive ideas, and ever repeating tides. Lovely just now, though just a big big rock, showing the attractive side. The romantic, the “dancing on moonlight” side.
Most likely you, the digital reader, prefers time to be marked by a blinking multi-colored electronic device, you might consider the round clock face as ancient as an hour-glass. Here, we have found the moon, waxing, waning, gone and overwhelmingly brilliant, to be a chronological fit. This is a very un-midwestern idea, we like to be on-time in the digital clock sense.
But turbulence among the bigger and lesser enfant terribles attendees is such that gravitational waves, seismic waves, or the winds now arriving from the arctic; seem to emanate astronomically, in order to attest to the emotive’s fated importance. Certainly the stars and the moon would cease their influence if providence hadn’t decreed: that the attendees at our reunion of anarchists – must be – the heaven’s goal.
Could it be a celestial confluence that found this place on the prairie, so that the anachronistic could coexist with the temporal? We are close to the native homes of the singing poet of Illinois and the guy who named our practical capitol the “hog-butcher of the world”. And, nightly the moon still shines useful light into the cemetery on the nearby Spoon River. All are present, just over the rise from the Mother Road.
And, to light this dance of the romantic absurd; up in the dome of the tent of the incomprehensible, She ( our docent ) has hung the moon, a bit of romance in our absurdity.
A decorative reminder that present times may be out-of-joint, but as long as the big rock keeps rising there will be anarchists and enfant terribles, and possibly a few artists.
And, as long as the sun keeps rising liberty will be dancing in the thickets..
Next Saturday, we shall consider “back-in-the-day”…join us.