Pale green doilies of lichen on rock walls.
Leafless, tangly vines are a wreath.
Survivalist puffs of white dandelion
hide in a spot underneath.
Ice where the tide has receded.
Bare treelines like soft brown smoke hover.
Wintery air has the stillness
of a theater that's in foreclosure.
On most days, my beach path's a refuge.
In its way peaceful, familiar and rare.
On this day it simply feels lonely.
A train whistle haunts the cold air.