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Call the roller of big scarves and let the wenches dawdle in such sweaters. Take from the oven the peanut butter cookies and spread them so as to cover your face.This is no time for cold, cold ice cream, unless it’s melting on top of hot, hot apple pie.This is, however, a time to mess up beloved poetry, in this case cleverly inserting full-bodied, seasonal nouns in place of Wallace Stevens’ existential corpse-side metaphor.November means heavy down comforters, sudden desires for stew and darkening tennis dates. It means requesting holiday vacation time, taking a lot of baths and, this year at least, reading Roddy Doyle stories while trying to use my intransigent chow-chow as a pillow. It means a lot of lazy things.But in our ineluctable torpor, I propose we seek out tasks that, while maybe not factually extraordinary, at least remind us of the spring-like giddiness of creation. We are not bears or sunflowers. We should not waste away our winters.Rewriting famous poems in completely self-serving ways can kill those long minutes while the macaroons bake. Consider it practice for later, after the schmaltz of Hanukkah and especially Christmas, when we take it upon our chubby selves to make the new year less embarrassing than the last.With this looming seriousness in mind, we had best use the next month and a half to our advantage.Let’s begin immediately.
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