when a branch pulls at my sleeve
like a child's tug, or the fog, reticent & thick,
lifts--& strands of it hang like spun sugar
in branches & twigs, or when a phoebe
trills from the hackberry,
I believe such luck
is meant for me. Does this happen to you?
Do you believe at times that a moment
chooses you to remember it & tell about it__
so that it may live again?
--Laure-Anne Bosselaar
[Foggy afternoon on the Schoodic Peninsula in Acadia National Park].
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