We arrive in Maine, drop our bags and change our shoes (city shoes don't translate here). I grab my camera and we all head to the beach. We need to air out and breath in the piney salty rocky air. After 20 minutes of rambling around, my camera has clicked twice as many times. Here are a few shots from those 20 minutes. Let's wrap up the post with Mary Oliver because...well, read and you'll see.
Roses, Late Summer by Mary Oliver
What happens
to the leaves after
they turn red and golden and fall
away? What happens
to the singing birds
when they can't sing
any longer? What happens
to their quick wings?
Do you think there is any
personal heaven
for any of us?
Do you think anyone,
the other side of that darkness,
will call to us, meaning us?
Beyond the trees
the foxes keep teaching their children
to live in the valley.
So they never seem to vanish, they are always there
in the blossom of light
that stands up every morning
in the dark sky.
And over one more set of hills,
along the sea,
the last roses have opened their factories of sweetness
and are giving it back to the world.
If I had another life
I would want to spend it all on some
unstinting happiness.
I would be a fox, or a tree
full of waving branches.
I wouldn't mind being a rose
in a field full of roses.
Fear has not yet occurred to them, nor ambition.
Reasons they have not yet thought of.
Neither do they ask how long they must be roses, and then what.
Or any other foolish question.