Portland Maine And Her Restful Time

The pinewoods in all their glory,

the changing whom I see

each and every time;

in the whiffle of the typical seawind.

During the redness of the evening and the redness of the morning;

it is the rustling of the branches,

with me and my thoughts about the tomorrow whom immideately draw away

because it seems:

all we want to think about is only “today”..


All I know now, the morning doesn’t make any sence yet.

The sunset makes her appearance noticeble and do I always seem to forget that,

Forgetting that the night slides into the morning?

Now and then, I stand here gilded in the appearance of the moon,

the lighthouse burning and she calls my name so soon..


So would I ever keep worried about tomorrow,

will I ever be worried again?

Will that ever be necessary when I feel my heart belongs in the restful time of Maine?


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