Long Ago Beaches

As far as the heart can reach,
a blue expanse
white-capped with frivolity;

the sand a touch of golden sun
beneath bare feet.

The same wooden beach chair
where  two had snuggled comfortably –
more than ample space for one

and a lifetime of recall.
The wind remembers old songs.

Waves roll in,
a metronome
keeping perfect time.

The guitar plays softly
in this dream.

A painting or a reverie?
She smiles
through the mist.

Going Home to a Quiet Town

Harbor mist circles the Methodist spire
as if seeking salvation,
then slowly drifts downward
lending a sheen to streets
cobbled in continuous mosaic.

Quiet meets the eye, the ear.
Time, passing without a sound,
weaves sentences out of silence.
Sea salt carries them out
with a kiss.

Meekly the paint curls
on white clapboards accepting
their fate. If this is punishment
for living too long, how gracefully
they age.

Hydrangeas soften the impact
of echoes. Memories merge
in the whispering breeze. Lore has it
that if you linger too long in this peace
you become one with the mist.

The Orchard Has Begun its Greening

Each newborn leaf a windblown sigh
green with the hope of Spring;
Soon fruit will bond
with limb.

Russet chipmunks
streak the mossy stones
and in the air yellow birds
attend to schedules loosely kept.

They have no fear.
They are free ;
new sun has warmed
their world.

They are busy celebrating,
exploring; content with their intent
to catch the breeze as they reconnoiter
every corner for future berries.

If, as humans,
we must settle for incomplete,
even then, this day
is named Perfection.