Since this is Druid Hill Poet -- thought I should post a poem.
Maine, Ideal
(c)2008, Jane Sellman
Maine hangs out
over the waistline of New England.
Blue-green-
grey surf smashes million-year
rocks of
take it for granite
shale
and quartz.
Seagulls outlined on the horizon
dive for cold fries and white bread bits
wait to crap on tourists snapping
turtles and sandpipers.
Rockports impose sand tracks
Manolo Blahniks make
holes, which fill with ocean phlegm
and tiny crabs
quickly torn to snack-size bites by dueling birds.
The rain, an impotent drizzle on cordial wind, blows
the well-heeled inside for postcards and souvenir matchbook covers.
Removing my shoes, I curse
the negligence of the sun.
Give thanks for Maine rushing
between my toes.
Watch how Maine light, when
it shows itself, slants differently, casting
defined shadows
of greedy gulls
ancient rocks
and damp poets.
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