Certain rocks take on the color of the sea, the shore, the air. It is a sign of affection.

Truncated, cut off, cut short. There are so many ways of describing the fragmentary character of our lives. Many can but imagine what their lives could have become in a more fertile soil.

The gondolas had not returned. As the mist from the sea settled in the lagune, the docking poles stood as if orphaned.

The maddening effect of the full moon on the emotional state of roots has not yet been fully researched.

Some poles look lonelier than others.

Idyllic scenes lack absence. They are too crowded. A fence does not need a moon, and a moon does not need the sea, and the sea does not need birds in flight.

The map is never the territory. This is why some of us never arrive.

I watched the moon eyeing our laundry. And when the wind picked up, I suspected a conspiracy.

Some places are more spacious than others. They simply know how to honor the roots that ground us.