The harbor breeze
dangles the torn screen,
teases me
out of this old room,
works me out of myself.

When days lengthen,
the last bit of winter
lets go --
a mourning dove
turning towards home.

Birches sweep past. 
We press them into our minds
hoping
their memory will become
                  as endless as the sea.

Roll in, roll out, 
change masks, roll in again --
infinite faces --
each time I fail to guess
who you will be next

Hummingbird buzzes,
sprites about to poke bee balm,
releases grace
in the amplifying waves
it sets in motion

Bits of dust 
blown by salty air
into gaps
of a broken wall
sow a garden all their own