I was 'going to'  (as if, now that I look upon the blog below, I don't ) rant today about Valentine's Day and the hyped significance thereof.  

Oh the commercialism, abominably yes.  And the ridiculous accolade of any single day as an "official day for lovers". (Never should we dare to love unofficially? huh? And what if I dare to love you ever-always without the intrusion of a day's division to sever the wildering torrent of our runaway romance?).  Even the insulting dimunition of a stud renegade kick-ass god like Cupid into some chubby, mischievous tyke. (Some god of love, Cupid: Cupid even brought proud Apollo, the god of reason, to his knees. First he launched a gold-tipped arrow at Apollo, who fell for Daphne. Then he pinged Daphne with a lead-tipped arrow so she would be repulsed by him and run away. He was a real son-of-a-bitch!  Hell, often he would screw the pretty girls himself much sooner than play some silly game of matchmaker.)

I've always put all such crap aside with the utmost disdain.  And would rather ask myself instead: "If I am a wolf, what day is this?"  And answer: "Another day to howl, to range, to explore, and to care with wolving love for all that's mine." 

I lament only that there's no full moon to howl at tonight, and leave you with this link: the true history of Lupercalia  (the holiday of Valentine's Day before it was hijacked and tortured into Christian subservience).

Oh yes, by the way, Lupercalia and lupus (wolf) share the same root...and some of the same raw purifying energy.

Good morning, sunshine,

I followed the star trails right into daybreak and found you. And so now bask in the sweet, warm glow of you.