Wind meets the rocky shore, lost from the way things were, returning once more, coming to grieve over rocky shores once more. Moon sliver birches and spinster crows and sailor souls are all over eastern waves. Pinecone crystals fall, like stars and loons and the sobs of wolves. Snow and heat fall from the shortening moon. Wind. Wind blows darkness around the lighthouse keeper’s cabin, as his wife tends the fire. The baby sleeps under lamb’s wool. Wind blows darkness through the chimney, but the fire does not go out.

Wind meets the rocky shore and the lobster traps, till the breakers give way to soundless wonder. The compasses of seafarers are leading them here and there. Wind meets the rocky shore, and lanterns are tiny light to find one’s way under the pressure of all the surf.

Wind meets the rocky shore, lost from the way things were. Boats fill up with seawater, and foghorns make ripples in the approaching soft fog. Wind and fog will fight it out on the rocky shores. And I will return once again. For when I hear the notes of a low wind, it opens my heart like a Nova Scotia apple with the North Star at its center.