I dream of my return
to that place:
dusty roads, cliffs
that for just a moment
make you believe
you can fly, and fog
weaving between tall
trees. In my dreams
I sneak between
weathered cottages
and boathouses
and pick my way
through strands of
retired lobster buoys
until at last, the little
harbor reveals itself
and says,
“Welcome home, Artist!
Come.
Lose your pain
in my beauty.”

Irene MacCollar