made of good timber

Summer calls for the sounds that can't be made at any other time of the year
She hears the orchestration
Sounds that are repeated in her sleep down by the shores of the mighty Atlantic.

She looks both ways through her stained glass dreams
When she feels drained she changes her vista to fit her emotion.

Some days she looks plain as a leafless tree
Other days she's the Taj Mahal in a Down East autumn

and plays ping pong with words
whether bouncing in the 'burbs
or dancing for the sky and the delight in her eye.
So momentarily it's hard to tell if she's body & spirit or if she's more a phantom ship that drifts through your harbour.


She has a roving soul and has survived ship wrecked relationships
She's made of good timber.