…but a whimper.”
— T.S. Eliot
So ends the 2020 edition of Buller’s Back Porch.
Some bloggers and writers pull out all the stops for a year-end finale, wrapping up their year with a Top 10 list, or some sort of summary commentary on the year just ending, or deep philosophical pondering about the passing of time and ephemeral nature of our lives.
Yeah…not me. I figure 2020 has give us plenty enough drama, so I’ll just quietly sneak out the side door here without much fanfare.
I will leave you with one last piece about passing time. Found this in an old notebook I started nearly 40 years ago — old yet eternal.
when do they wind up the world?
I used to think they had to do it every night,
like the grandfather clock in our living room.
I’d lie awake in bed, eyes straining against the dark,
ears reaching for the chimes of magic midnight.
counting countless ticks endlessly lining up end to end
stretching across the country (all time zones)
around the world (international dateless line)
to the moon (and back)
beyond (and back)
waiting for the winding…
when do they wind up the world?
all the time — why do you think it spins?
See ya next year!
Buller's back porch 