was it too late to reinvent to shed her skin and start again?
the old birdhouse was stuffed with sticks and feathers at first glance she thought it was a dried milkweed pod how fragile this baby wren she gently cradled him in her hands and placed him on a branch where he had room to spread his tiny wings and fly home
something about foggy mornings allows one to ease into the day I walk a little slower
her days were a struggle between holding on and letting go
“My attachment to the state is that of a barnacle to a ledge, the pull of the moon to the earth. Maine, because of its singular and profound beauty, is a place of worship without walls. I love it so.” ~ May Davidson
