In April, the golden-haired boy is still just that: a boy. He does not have the strength of a full-grown man, not even close. He still runs off with his friends and shirks his responsibilities. When his tutors scold him, he laughs and disappears for days at a time. He has not yet learned how to be king. He has not yet remembered how to present the illusion. He has not yet shouldered the burden of responsibility.
|Searching for the king.|
And so we sit and wait here in Maine. We wait for the golden-haired boy, the boy who would be king. All around us, the skies give no hint of his presence, no glimpse of his existence. Deep inside, one wonders: Have we reached the time when the Golden King is finally defeated? Has the year come at last when he will not return? There are legends that tell of this time, the time when the King does not return and the world plunges into darkness.
When the icy rains pelt your skin and the wind howls fiercely and the grey trees bow in stricken submission, it is easy to see and feel the death of the Golden King. Still, we will search for his symbol, high in the sky. We will look for the Golden One. We will wait for his return.