It's a grey December, mildly cold morning.
Not carrying its weight for cold or snow,
just dragging us down with colorless drab.
Jesus said he'd rather hot or cold, but would spew out lukewarm.
I, too, would rather one or the other.
But this is only weather, not spiritual health,
and so we'll carry on with our plans
to visit a long ago man-made paradise
that bursts this time of year with electric lights
that somehow adorn the trees more so than they adorn themselves in Spring.
I can only imagine what the bath of colors--sprayed over every tree in the vast
acreage of this estate--will look like later this afternoon
as the gray sky turns away from the sun
and gives way to white darkness
and the paradise with electric bags of dye
drip over everything with glowing color.