Although the Christmas lights out front have been OFF they have still been THERE, annoyingly, but not any more. Spent an actually pleasant Sunday afternoon high atop the ladder (once I got there) untangling them from the Ichabod trees. And then I coiled up all the highways of electricity I so ingeniously laid down.
Every once in a while, just a few feet off the ground
out there on 601, you are literally in your own world. It was fun to
stare through tiny bulbs into the sun, solar rays illuminating the red
plastic covers from the OUTSIDE into Rubies of protest, in one last
ditch effort it seemed they tried bring light to that which is barren,
gnarly, forgotten and sort of surreal. Footsteps trod guilty across the
mummified remains of last season.
Candy cane colors back in
hiding. Electrics away. The dried browngray leaves and limbs lie like
bones now in wait of the Green Man, whose light comes neither from
within nor down upon, but bursts THROUGH thicket, around thorn, to greet
some spring day sun yet unknown despite some gopher of a shadow or
whatever tophats say happen.
He is neither green nor a man. He
does however need the wood, at least for sake of a gathering of trees
not so Edenly placed. A metaphor. As above so below, and thus a forest
is the five limbed, five sensed Microcosm of all that awakens on a Grand
scale, staring back through winter right at you, eyebrows as
pompadoured and beard as wild as daguerreotyped Russian philosophers,
but made only of bark.
And to think, I could have watched the Game on TV.