Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth

In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.

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Jack Pumpkinhead Must Die

Old Jack is dead.

Valiantly he lit the Gates of Summer's End.

Then came freeze.

Now, with thaw, what the squirrels have left sits in a puddle of its own melt: sunken, falling in.

Once he was firm, thunkable. Now, if you tried to pick him up—but please don't try—he'd fall to spongy, rotten pieces.

Soon I'll be bringing out the snow shovel. Its first use of the season will be to shovel up what's left of Jack and take him back to compost.

Yes, Summer's gone, but you know Jack.

He always comes back.

So farewell, Jack the Pumpkin King.

Hello, Jack Frost.

 

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Poet, scholar and storyteller Steven Posch was raised in the hardwood forests of western Pennsylvania by white-tailed deer. (That's the story, anyway.) He emigrated to Paganistan in 1979 and by sheer dint of personality has become one of Lake Country's foremost men-in-black. He is current keeper of the Minnesota Ooser.

Comments

  • Tasha Halpert
    Tasha Halpert Thursday, 16 November 2017

    Made me smile! Great photo too.

  • Angela
    Angela Tuesday, 21 November 2017

    Once again, I love your post! Instead of looking mournfully at my deflated Jacks, I can laugh at Him skipping merrily from one form to another. May you have a lovely Thanksgiving.

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