The clouds are a quilt in the sky
The seagulls laugh at the mud flats
The sun spies on your writing
The tan and withering leaves try to get a closer look at you
The grass does a quiet dance on the marsh
The water backs slowly away
The crow balks to speak his mind
The rocks stare with disapproving malice
The crane points his boom at God
Enticing us to look

The mermaid weathervane flirts with the north-blowing wind
The mud meanders along the crescent wall of Juniper Cove
Calling the poet’s eye

The island is in earnest, it will not equivocate or excuse
The houses are warmly snugged together
The New England breeze is in a cheerful mood today
The tree tops flaunt their naked shame
Without remorse

The widow’s peak weeps for her lost ship
The gnats migrate to a better climate
The tidal pool calls the poet’s name
The mourning doves dress as pigeons
The bulkhead attempts to fold his hands together
The flagpole rattles in fear
The ocean sleeps with humility
The motor boats are braggarts
The kayaks and skiffs play cards
The traffic light is a ghost


Andrew Borne is 2 Cups Poet 1 teaspoon Musician 1/4 teaspoon Salt 1/2 cup Absurdity 3/4 cup Chef 1 egg, beaten 2 1/3 cups Family Man. Mixed together and served raw. His column 7x appears weekly in Oddball Magazine.