I take leave of my fortress,

crossing that curious threshold.

I find myself enveloped by a dazzling palette of crimson and saffron:

a glorious manifestation of Divine artistry.

Zephyr and his entourage regale me with tales of faraway lands,

bringing vivacious color to a heartlessly manicured plot.

There is a tangible crispness,

an almost spiritual actuality,

prevalent in every stride I take.

 

I part the living sea of hues,

and marvel at the painting beneath me.

The shadows cast by the benign wooden giants overhead

are a horde of Pharaoh's chariots.

Black armor gleams beneath the sun.

With roars of sadist bloodlust the slavers call me back.

They are in deadly pursuit,

and I fear recapture.

Aha! I see a soldier lurking there-

in the oak trees!

To the ground I dive,

landing in a velvety blanket of needles and leaves,

and his arrow soars harmlessly above my head.

I rise to my feet.

A sudden blaring accompanies a bright flash in the window behind me,

and I am drawn from my game.

 

I am greeted by the song of the bluebird,

whose celestial melodies ensnare me.

There is magic above,

and I am entranced by the soulful craftsmanship of the songbirds.

As they weave their tapestry,

they finish construction of a new home.

High above me,

far closer to God than I should think we men are,

the workers chirp in exasperation,

as the Westerly Wind makes sport of unearthing the corners of their labor.

Browned twigs and amber bark fall around me.

The air is alive with energy,

and music.

Ah, that must be the songbirds.

But I begin to find traces of further layering the closer I examine.

The chorus is growing,

fed by the contributions of insect and wind and leaf.

I am encircled by a general symphony now,

and the Sun God’s lyre is driving the orchestra.

I pick up a golden baton and begin to conduct,

while all around me creation listens with rapt attentiveness.

Captivating crescendos make way for euphonic climaxes,

and I wonder that time itself has not stood still to listen in.

The scream of a car horn pulls me back to the present,

and I drop the old twig.

 

I breathe deeply.

The air is rich,

and smooth.

The trees dance gracefully before me,

and the birds sing of wild tidings.

Reds and yellows and oranges float down from the heavens,

joining their brethren upon the earth.

Beams of color coruscate upon the October elegance.

It is almost dreamlike,

but perhaps it is the only genuine craftsmanship to be found nowadays.

I think that from the sky,

the great Artist smiles at his handiwork.

 

I continue my walk,

and I finally reach my destination.

Pulling open the faded ebony door on the rusty compartment,

I withdraw a cold envelope.

I unseal it,

and I read aloud.

I sigh,

a timeless,

transcontinental,

sigh.

And I make my way back to the doorstep.

Ah, I see the light of the television.

Look,

there.

It beckons me.

With a final close-eyed breath,

I attempt to etch every detail of the scene before me into my mind.

The unfathomable gaiety of the airborne workers

will surely be hard to find inside,

and the undying grace of those kindly giants,

those ancient monuments to reality,

shall paint no canvas beyond this threshold.

I reenter my fortress,

and close the old dark door behind me.

 

“Dear Sir or Madam,

We are writing to inform you that with no small amount of despair do we lament the unkempt nature of your property. Housing values must be protected…”