Every dream has its waking

....or does it?

My time in Little Green is at an end.  Nothing left but the cleaning up and leaving.
My heart rebels against leaving, not just here but everywhere.
This leaving is harder than most.  I am more myself here than anywhere.

So close to the sea

No more sunset communions taken with strangers
No more fierce wind to twist my hair into delicious knots
No more startled flocks of herons
No more shambles down the beach and around the point
No more mornings sipping coffee and watching the Sound
No more palette shifting Gulf with its indigo, gold and mossy green

I want to fold these things and take them with me in my bag
But I cannot for those things have already been gently woven into

the cloth of me