Maine, Down East
So where do lighthouses light the way for 17th century French frigates, and giant forks become poles for laundry lines…why, in my beloved Maine, of course. Because Maine is in my veins the same way those striations of quartz run through the pink granite and black basalt along the coast, the perspective is often unusual. Maybe it is love of simple things that make the heart sing and the tunes of the tides. Yes, it has to do with the rhythm of the sea, and constant movement set against the unyielding remnants of ancient volcanoes. Yet there is humor there, too, and that is my point of departure.
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