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Harbor mist circles the Methodist spire
as if seeking salvation,
then slowly drifts downward
lending a sheen to streets
cobbled in continuous mosaic.

Quiet meets the eye, the ear.
Time, passing without a sound,
weaves sentences out of silence.
Sea salt carries them out
with a kiss.

Meekly the paint curls
on white clapboards accepting
their fate. If this is punishment
for living too long, how gracefully
they age.

Hydrangeas soften the impact
of echoes. Memories merge
in the whispering breeze. Lore has it
that if you linger too long in this peace
you become one with the mist.

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