(written 6.26.19 while gazing at a watercolor on my desk)

Thatch flecked by ocean spray, dappled with sunlight through the cotton-bottomed clouds holds a shield over our heads. We cut it from the marshy edge–wiry grass on permanent tilt from the ocean’s wind. Plucking up reeds with knife and scythe we paused to ponder. Watching the shorebirds, we marveled at life beside our bundles of living things now marked for death. We’ll loft them high above our heads; they’ll keep us warm, their wet will be our dry.

There’s a life in their dying, a purpose, a plan. Held between the dew and the smoke of the hearth, held between the sun and the cool of the stone. A haven, a border, for a span. And then return to the marsh from whence they came. To serve another purpose.

And the grass springs up green again.

Stones stacked tight against Atlantic gusts. Holding up strong on the outside so all is soft and close within. We splashed them white in late spring, laughing as we worked, brightening the landscape with our steady cottage home.