Ah, the wonders of whiskey and the willow tree
Tell me, what does it mean to thee?
Does it sway you to and fro on a whimsy-breeze?
Or mayhaps tickle your nose in a whiffley-sneeze?
There are some rather odd and ridiculous sayings that come to mind under the influence of such mischievous quiddities as whiskey and autumntime. Mayhaps it is an arousal of sorts, and on that subject I won’t go any further. If you comprehend my intent, then you’ve already lost your Good Innocence. If you don’t, then ignore the statement altogether.
Mayhaps it is the loverly golden-brown that tints and refracts the world in such a way that only intoxication may do. Or, mayhaps, it is simply the bold intentionality that is awoken by the inevitability of the fading warmth of summertime and a whiskeyglass which turns to a chill as naught is left behind but winter and whiskey-less ice.
Whatsoever may be the wondrous culprit, I daresay a hand steadied despite the most frigid of barren-bringers is a fine blessing. After all, all writing is memory, and God gave us memory so we could have roses in December.