Foolery

As a pun, invented by serendipity, meaning some kind of play on fake jewelry. That's me. Foolery. A darkly luminous idea.

Somehow, tomorrow, I have to drag this carcass across the surface of the lake.

Howard the bear brought his seventy-five pound saxophone. Oh Death, won't you spare me over to another year?

The shifting continues. I have to be at the marina in an hour, and likely immersed like a true Baptist in two. The lake is a great, cold jewel, darkly luminous, and I am a fool.

Everyone knows I'm going. Nowhere to hide if I drown. I make a play for my soul, tell myself if I cross over I will have the mojo to live.

And here I am. Water fine. Swim went quickly, too quickly. Didn't savor the green gold endless underneath below me long enough. Floating is flying. Crossing over is better than lingering on the shore.

Nightfall and the thunder appears contented to mutter in the mountains  over Valhalla and the glacier, on the other side. I sit on the borrowed porch, listening, pleased with my foolery now. I came here from the thunder side, came here on my own two arms dragging me over the green world. Going back may not now be as frightening to contemplate, I shouldn't wonder.