the fall of Kennebunkport

Coffee in the early morning

reminds me of the coast of Maine.

The small hotel, the salty sting

of crashing waves against the rocks,

where you took a photograph

and I captured the lobster traps

across the lane.


October winds can be felt in your bones.

Trapped forever inside,

they found a lonely home

and stayed,

in that butterfly hole where

he tends to reside.


A fluttery comfort, and clear

recollection of past experience,

always so undeniably near.

Frozen pictures suspended in space,

freezing my breath

yet warming my heart,


closing my eyes

for one last glimpse before the coffee's gone,

and I leave that hallowed place.