Maine In Spring
I have a memory of a lighthouse in rain;
the ocean below in cold spray,
the waves among the rocks
and the sky lost in gray.
Not a lobster trap’s marker, not a sail’s cuneiform hint,
not a gull scoring an alliterative scrawl,
just the rain’s affirming constancy.
Between the wipers on the windshield,
Hood’s November written in April’s rain.
That was twenty long years ago,
Maine in spring, in winter’s wake,
a poster, tack-torn at the corner
and fading into all that is lost.
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