There was never a sound beside the wood but one,
And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground.
What was it it whispered? I knew not well myself;
Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun,
Something, perhaps, about the lack of sound—
And that was why it whispered and did not speak.
It was no dream of the gift of idle hours,
Or easy gold at the hand of fay or elf:
Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak
To the earnest love that laid the swale in rows,
Not without feeble-pointed spikes of flowers
(Pale orchises), and scared a bright green snake.
The fact is the sweetest dream that labor knows.
My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.
Mowing, by Robert Frost
Bears are divided into brown and white, also paws, head and trunk. They have nice snouts and small eyes. They like greediness very much. They don’t want to go to school, but sleeping in the forest — that, yes, very much. When they don’t have any honey, they clutch their heads in their hands and are so sad, so sad, that I don’t know. Children who love Winnie-the-Pooh would give them anything, but a hunter walks in the forest and aims with his rifle between that pair of small eyes.
Bears, from Zbigniew Herbert’s Elegy for the Departure.
The coffee place Ben and I go to on weekends has started selling these stickers. It wasn’t immediately clear to either of us what their meaning or purpose was. So, while we waited in line, we speculated:
ME: Is it some sort of metaphysical, circle-of-life bullshit? Like, “Hey, man. Pants may get wet, but sooner or later they dry. Trees, they live, but then they die. Oh, how like we are to pants and/or trees! Sic transit gloria! Feeeeeeeeelings!”
BEN: No way. It’s not that deep. It’s, like, “Fuck it. Pee your pants.”
ME: Wow. Totally. Like, whatever, man: go for it.
BEN: Why not? Your pants will dry eventually.
ME: For reals.
When we got to the front of the line, however, I felt the need to verify this theory. I asked the man behind the counter what the stickers meant. He stood for a moment with a confused look on his face then wiped his hands on his pants. “Pants dry,” he said. Then, he pointed at some napkins. “Trees die.”
“Oh,” I said, “we thought it meant you should just pee your pants. Fuck it. Pee your pants. Pants dry.”
“That’s a good idea, too,” he replied.
Once we had our coffee and were leaving the shop, Ben turned to me and said “They better not be drying their hands on their pants. That’s gross.”
“Word. Peeing your pants is totally cool, though.”