DAYCARE

Said the carrot on the kitchen counter:

“A carrot is not an ICBM or a baseball bat.”

I was of a mind to agree. So,

“Retinol is magic for the eyes. Carrot cake is visionary!”

“Ah, brilliant . . .the Quest.”

“Pardon?”

“The Magic Carrot, and the Killer Bunnies! If you let one go to

  seed . . “

Which I have done. It grows a feathery bloom on a fairy stalk. I

took a picture just this morning.

“The Magic Carrot is proof against incursions of Artificial

    Intelligence.”

So as I write, the mystery is solved. My garden sculpture

culminates in a blue marble which, from time to time,

has jumped

onto the patio. And Mr. Finch is visiting. He enjoys cookie

crumbs on the table, flies to the marble. It stays put this time.

This might become a serious distraction. Otherwise, definitely

material for a Doctoral Thesis by an analytical psychiatrist.

It's Modern Art. A Cubist carrot? Yes, now we're getting

somewhere. It's a Formula One racing carrot driven by a maniac

ceramic mouse (flame proof), moving on sliced radish wheels.

Jungian analysis derives the archetype: Carrot and Stick.

Definitely getting there.

Back at the cutting board, stubborn orange is a theme for the

camera, producing images for the brain's darkroom. It's magic.

The Candidate adds a footnote.

“Mr. Kline's understanding of the universe includes

  carrot forms.

  He reports

  a dream first described by Anaxagoras 2,500 years ago,

  given as a reason why

  it's better to be born than not to exist.”

To which I add a pinch of pumpkin pie spice. And also, orange

is a word without rhymes. Or so it is said. At the risk of

political

incorrectness, I nonetheless nominate “sponge” as close enough

for gardening.

So there you have it, moving through diplomatic shallows -- the

shadows Carrot and Stick. They hark back to Clinton's coy

pond, getting the fish to bite. The Carrot, in today's modern art

of war, is a peace treaty with North Korea.

Somehow the archetype harks back to plowshares and swords.

“But Mr. Kline lacks affect.”

Mr. Finch is here for a cookie crumb and cocks an eye,

cheeping:

“Korea, Hiroshima, Nagasaki!”

Blast survivors begged to die quickly, eyes pleading.

Better than being born? Why swords?

It's time to change. We got what we wanted. Here's a thought to

outshine thermonuclear brilliance: We can get on with life, off

weapons altogether. We can rein in the climate bomb. No one

gets vaporized.

We can want this. We'd better.