1783.

Anchors held like hearts
with all its weight held under
just hoping to float.

1782.

I am subsumed with
a slow, steady, persistent
melancholy now.

1781.

Tonight is built for
firesides and our talking
long into the night.

1780.

This day will always
be marked in your honor, notched
deep within my heart.

1779.

The sun is backlit
by shimmering clouds in a
bruised hue of wonder.

1778.

Autumn is right on
the horizon. Teasing the
senses for glory.

1777.

I believe I may
have outgrown the will for dreams
to be wrestled down.