Will o’ the Wisp
If you are not careful to see through the ruse – and who is, after that one absolutely last drink? – streetlights can make themselves up to look an awful lot like homing beacons after a certain hour, when night starts going by the name of morning, hedging to the letter of the cycle if not the spirit; they never tell you precisely that they will lead you to your own door and the respectability of your own bed, only that you will recognize your destination when you get there. They are correct in this, assurance, to give fractional credit for honesty, but upon arrival you will be no safer for the knowing; wherever dawn happens to find you, it might be a generation or two before anyone else does.
Flora, Fortuna and the First Commandment
No other gods before Me: We learned it young, renouncing all Baals and golden calves with cookie-crumbed zeal before moving on to crafts. Our mothers helped us fill the May baskets we rolled, stapled, taped. No gods before, but one goddess hovered behind when we hung and rang and ran. Come November, minds and crayons and scissors turned Romeward again, crudely glued cornucopias mimicking the one atop our austere Baptist altar. No plagues befell us; no rough Babylonian boots kicked in the doors to which we taped our flimsy inadvertent idols. Perhaps one must be able to spell syncretism before being held accountable for it.
Fermata/Rest
One line, then the second; now let silence rule ... what screamed inside your head while you waited?
Flight of the dragonfly 