Somewhat late for twelfthtide’s original rush, I am finally here—your kingly, regally-robed Christmas thrush. Soooo, looks like I am left to adoring local church’s nativity-scene plush, which, I suppose, means no need to nobly gush at level hush. ; )

Punxsutawney Phil has fallen ill—believe it or not, he is of the quinquagenarian lot and it seems likely such case must be connected to those men in top hats. So, with less than a month to prepare for the day of seasonal flair, I shall practice which scream goes with each screen—with the chirpy one tending towards spring since sounds of delight are for grounds green rather than fields of ice cream. ; )

Our hearts had been hardened into unfamiliar forms by society’s swage, but the foundation of our love was a rock that would both forgive and uplift us beyond the weathers of age. ; )

And, while the fomenter may believe they are anchoring support to change the tide of the times, in fact, those waves, whether they turn deasil or widdershins, will sink the ship natheless—for the seasons of sea sun favour on pliancy and run rancor on piracy. ; )

Surviving a lurgy oft only requires a pill, whereas a remedy for loneliness asks more of chance than of will. ; )