be not so pale

if we ever so choose to sell this house of greene methinks we should only have it on the market in the glory of the fall, only after having raked the golden plunder from the grass so as not to overwhelm. the trees are outrageous -- thanks to the locksmith and his wife who, being born a long time ago, they grew up and, childless, built and planted together in the spring or fall, perhaps, lining them up along the north side of the house dreaming of generations of hammock swingers to come, plunking bundles of roots and earth into deep holes, pushing the blackness over them, perspiration glittering on the upward turning of lips.



the sugar maple in the front of the house is undoubtedly the best tree in the entire county, perhaps in the land of lincoln altogether. gather your trees of illinois and we shall see, yes we shall. bring them on over and line them up down this street, their roots gnarling over the curb, the cars, the sleepy houses, for a good comparison. we'll have a panel of judges with clipboards and pencils, tweeds and wool, scarves of maroon or gold, silvers of hair or no hair at all, pince-nez, binocular, spectacles for the spectacle of your tree next to mine.



does your tree ignite with a mere matchstrike of the sun (sunstrike? sunstroke?) in the early glimmer of morning, sending prismatic flames across the front of your house, shooting through glass and screen, a light display on wall and floor, a nameless color to blaze and brindle you through coffee and breakfasts of waffle and jam? do you feel as though you're ready for launch and flight as you skip beneath the cloud of it, atop the ocean of it?