I lit that house up like fire,

With stringed lights,

So that everyone who drove by

Had to look in.

It was a long time ago,

And before it was popular.

Year round lights, as if to say,

What happens here is a delightful mystery.

Once upon a time,

A man bought a house next door.

He was from Portland,

And thought the lights

Would make a good neighbor.

(He told me so later.)

Many years have passed,

And now I’m looking back,

Beneath the lights,

Wondering about the belief

That strung them, tree from tree,

That lit the fire in the chimenea,

And laughed into the late hours

With old neighbors, drawn to light,

Like a lone windowsill geranium

In a colorless city,

Eventually fallen from its perch,

Broken, shattered clay of pot,

Roots reaching for a smattering of air.