I swear you once mentioned
Your Christmas lights are left outdoors
Lit only on occasions proper,
Unaware of the changes in season.
A seemingly irreplaceable decoration
That surely must be
Tinkered with, twiddled
Untangled and adjusted from time to time.
So you blow the snow away
Perhaps by their twinkle in winter.
You cut grass
As the light bulbs start to crack, weathered.
You grow flowers underneath
In the same beds, warmly
And they blossom, unfailingly.
While the wind and the rain
And the leaves and the twigs
Bundle your gutters;
Storms threaten to tear the roof
Off an otherwise solid structure.
Eventually, the lights outside
Will have to dismantle; worn, irrepairable.
Your house, your fortress…
You dutifully drive off to replace them.
Out of contentment or out of demand?
Requisite ornamentation, memories, keepsakes
To unpack and adorn once again.
The new lights are vivid, not pearly flushed.
And not what you were supposed to buy.
Now distracted by demented beauty,
Your steadiness on the ladder askew.
Building a fire to admire them by,
You choose solitude. Reflection.
A hardy pit and perspiring Glenfiddich
Glow your dimpled yet hesitant smile.
Cast loose, you’d undoubtedly flail.
Vacated involuntary, though,
The distinct safeguard
Of the wind you deem “friend”
Would never howl forcefully enough
To waver your fortress away.