Innocence and White Windowsills

It's sold now, the house on a distant hill, and the gulls are but echoes in my ears, the cistern of the harbor tipped and spilled, the limestone cliffs sundered by the years.   I think about its white windowsills, the horizon edged in clean enamel paint— each a testament to Yankee will, invoking the… Continue reading Innocence and White Windowsills