February 2011

carousel elephant

No one ever wants to ride the elephant on the carousel.

Even though he moves just as gracefully as the horses.

The choosing is done before the ride is put in motion, out of necessity.

And first impressions are all the riders have to go on.

The elephant looks heavy, despite the impressive trunk held aloft and sturdy legs poised mid-gallop.

It’s usually the slowest runners, the last to climb aboard that end up on the elephant, with frowns of disappointment looming over his golden tusks.

But when the tempo of the music changes, when the space between feet and floor increases exponentially and the carousel spins ever faster…

Then the elephant riders are pleased with their good fortune.

No one is ever thrown from the elephant on the carousel.

The same cannot be said for the horses.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

not in narnia anymore

They kept saying that it would stop, making predictions based on patterns in the wind and unseen stars and archaic interpretations of the behaviors of woodland creatures.

Just a few more weeks, they said. Months ago.

This storm shall be the last, they said.

And then there was another, and another.

And another.

The branches are breaking from the weight.

I keep looking for a lamppost, but I can’t tell east from west without the sun anymore, so I don’t know if landmarks would help.

Even the horizon disappears into the snow.

And there’s nothing in the endless cold to point me home.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.