It Happens in August

For the third August in a row, I'm "lamenting". I know I'm in the right spot for now. I'm pretty happy to be living in Boston with and near my friends from growing up and family. But in August, my brain has been trained to anticipate new things: meeting new people, having new experiences--and having the same good experience-- that is, autumn in Maine. (Thanks to Mom for putting words to my slight blues.)

So, here I am sleepless and reading. And here I come to this poem from one of my new acquisitions (library word, lame), Freely Espousing by James Schuyler

Penobscot

Open water facing Bradbury snags fog in its spruce.
Eagle has a meadow down its spine;
Compass, a cave; Scrag, five trees.
On Dirigo apples hang down into raspberries;
nearby, a lilac. Many remember
its old name, Butter, though Little Spruce Head
only one man still calls Frenchman's.
Birch-pale Beach has a chapel,
Bear has sheep. On others:
seals, butter-and-eggs, cellar holes.
From here we see them all, and more,
and the Camden Hills, Mount desert, Blue Hill, Deer Isle
and ocean facing Isle au Haut
where the breakers roll stones to cannon balls.

=sigh= I love you. Good thing you are a stationary land space, so I can take my time coming back...