a poem by Pat Kelbaugh, USA

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.

...going somewhere...

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