Love Letter - To A Wreath

Merry Christmas to you!! Did I actually use the word Christmas? Are you offended? (For more on being offended during the holiday season, please read my article entitled Being Politically Correct During The Holidays)!!

Today, since THE holiday is nearing, and I have so much to do (presents to make, wrap, send, etc.) and so little time to write, I figured this would be a GREAT time to start my Love Letter series.

I used to write an article for a local newspaper called Love Letters from S. Frank Stringham. I would write love letters, complete with a love poem (limerick), to inanimate objects.

Since it’s Christmastime, I’ll start with a love letter to a wreath.

Love Letters from S. Frank Stringham

To A Wreath

My Dearest Holly,

First of all, before I start to pine away about how proud I am to be your beau, and before you spruce yourself up, I just want to tell you that I love your cones. I know that you might take that all wrong, but don’t let your insides get into a knot, ‘cause I’m just needling you.

You are so beautiful…even when you’re just decked out in the halls. I may be going out on a limb when I say this, but when the lights are on you just right and we’re near a warm, comfortable fire, I love you with all my hearth.

I admit that I saw you get green with envy when I started singing with Carol, or when I began to drink with Brandy and Sherry (the hot Toddy twins), or even when I was collecting for Charity, but be-leave me, when I’m under the mistletoe…you’re the one that I want to hook up with.

I love to see you adorned with your colorful apparel…it’s amazing to me that you can branch out and wear anything, from your flashing sequins to your western wear (complete with spurs). I especially love it when you greet me with bells on…talk about making me go dingy…and I’m not just ribbon you either.

When you’re around me, I start to feel real tingly. Your perfume reminds me of the first time we met in the woods and when I first held you…I remember how sappy we got together.

My deep-rooted love for you will last till Father Time comes to take you away.

And now a poem that suckles, honey.

A Ring of Fir
When people first see you, I vow
They raise an admiring brow
You’re a pretty green vine
Like a round porcupine
So just smile and then take a bough.

I love you; hang around for the holidays, O.K.?

Love, S. Frank Stringham