I have watched the greatest of my days from a distance in Maine.
I remember each one vivid with color.
I have seen the arch of mortality from the summit of Bald Rock Mountain.
Disgracing the godliness of my mother, this earth.
The clouds talk to me in Maine, and I listen back with trust.
They are always telling me that the sky is about to fall.
The only thing left holding it up are the branches of the trees.
And soon they will be gone too.
Everything dies in Maine.
This time of year, everything dies.