snake in the grass

          was it too late to reinvent to shed her skin and start again?                

and rowed him softer home

        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          

easing

        something about foggy mornings allows one to ease into the day I walk a little slower            

dichotomy

          her days were a struggle between holding on and letting go          

of a barnacle to a ledge

                          “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