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?