Some Mornings in Maine
I hear the fog before I see it.
A slow sad note sounds, then echoes,
blanketing the trills of the morning,
pulling me like a siren song, in for a look.
The mist changes the harbor.
Scenes from black and white photographs,
taken long ago, sit stark and crisp,
colors forgotten like an old lover.
Low wisps dance in curls above the current.
Boats at anchor sway like silken scarves.
Draped in their gauzy veil,
they wait for the kiss of the sun.
It is silent now, this harbor, this morning.
Glimmers of light announce the coming change.
I scramble to soak in the sight and the sound,
the world more clear today, dressed in feathery grey.
Central New York Branch