When February has us in her grip
With numb fingers and frozen lips.
We remember the one true month of summer.
In our my mind’s eye at the wharf’s edge we linger
Beneath our feet high tide slaps at the pilings
The deck quivers bait barrels shimmy Lobster traps squeak
Wailing gulls overhead circle and dive
Silhouettes in a clear blue sky.
Floating colors awash in the bay and sails fill the horizon.
Inland is a swaying multitude of green fir and spruce.
Gray and white hardwood guard a dusty road.
A yellow shore hosts a family soaking up the sun.
Woodsmoke of Lobsters cooking butter on the melt.
Yells, yelps and happy sounds drift across the way.
Your time alone is done, you must return.
Back to the knee-deep snow and cold days.