10 April 2023 (spring in Maine)
Kristen Lindquist
spring in Maine . . .
the flowers and birdsong
of t.v. golf
Book of Days
BOOK OF DAYS: A POET AND NATURALIST TRIES TO FIND POETRY IN EVERY DAY
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Filtering by Tag: Maine
21 February 2022 (late winter Maine)
Kristen Lindquist
Near the summit of Mount Battie, Camden Hills State Park, 2.21.22
22 August 2021 (cigar)
Kristen Lindquist
a long cigar stub
crushed in beach sand
vacationland
1 May 2020 (maple)
Kristen Lindquist
spring in Maine
maple flowers standing in
for cherry blossoms
May 11: Ospreys
Kristen Lindquist
Ah, life on the coast of Maine...
but an osprey
still cries overhead.
Posted with BlogsyJanuary 18: Out in the cold again
Kristen Lindquist
The three-hour direct flight from Punta Gorda to Bangor has its blessings--no layovers, no lost luggage--as well as its downside: we were returned to the cold and imminent snow much too quickly.
Flurry of snow
reminds us of the white sands
we left behind.
Flurry of snow
reminds us of the white sands
we left behind.
December 5: Wicked dark
Kristen Lindquist
Even in this dark
I can tell
those are white pines.
I can tell
those are white pines.
August 15: Only in Maine
Kristen Lindquist
I met an old friend from high school for a drink after work today. He's been living a life in high finance and investing in New York, so he doesn't get back to Maine often. When I showed up, he said, "I know I'm in Maine when it's cold and raining and you're wearing flip-flops!"
My friend had taken his two little boys mackerel fishing in Rockport harbor today in a punt with a tiny motor. They hadn't gotten far when the motor broke. But the boys had trolling rods, so he ended up rowing them around the harbor for an hour-and-a-half while they fished for mackerel. They each caught three. I've got to think that as they grow up in suburban New York, their Maine summer experiences will seem magical to them. Those are the lasting memories, the ones that will bind them to this place no matter where they end up.
Walking to my car in the rain, dusk falling, I watched an osprey soar overhead on its way to the harbor. I love that I live in a place where ospreys sail past on a regular basis, in any weather.
Back home, as my husband and I were planning out what to have for supper, a friend drove up with a tray full of fresh-caught squid: there's our meal. Perfect. Only in Maine. It's these little things, these telling little stories of place gathered up each day, that make me feel so grateful that we live where we do.
A friend shares his catch:
squid jigged in Rockport harbor.
Fruit of the full moon.
My friend had taken his two little boys mackerel fishing in Rockport harbor today in a punt with a tiny motor. They hadn't gotten far when the motor broke. But the boys had trolling rods, so he ended up rowing them around the harbor for an hour-and-a-half while they fished for mackerel. They each caught three. I've got to think that as they grow up in suburban New York, their Maine summer experiences will seem magical to them. Those are the lasting memories, the ones that will bind them to this place no matter where they end up.
Walking to my car in the rain, dusk falling, I watched an osprey soar overhead on its way to the harbor. I love that I live in a place where ospreys sail past on a regular basis, in any weather.
Back home, as my husband and I were planning out what to have for supper, a friend drove up with a tray full of fresh-caught squid: there's our meal. Perfect. Only in Maine. It's these little things, these telling little stories of place gathered up each day, that make me feel so grateful that we live where we do.
A friend shares his catch:
squid jigged in Rockport harbor.
Fruit of the full moon.