The gates of St Augustine are open, letting everyone in.
They welcome the Kansans, Hawaiians, and Mississippians.
They welcome big bellies, and those who spend time at the gym,
As well as the pious and those who can’t shake some great sin.
But, they all pray for epiphany before they head home once again.
The Window at 228 Charlotte Street
I am touched by
white lace
framed by
maroon window trim
flanked by
broken moss blackened shutters
braced by
a blackened planter of purple flowers
The Red Gate at the End of Marine Street
My walk this morning has led me to Marine Street, which I take north till it ends at Bridge Street. At that intersection, I pause to decide whether to turn east toward the harbor or west toward the Lincolnville district, each direction a pleasant walk with its own distinct merits. As always, while waiting for some sign to make my choice, I am drawn to the concrete wall that faces me and encloses the grounds at Number 15 on the north side of Bridge Street. It is a high wall, six feet or so; ornate and old – blackened-with-moss old; wood-rotting, red-paint-peeling-door old. Flora, no longer tended, tests its boundaries. This side of the door, flowers have escaped the confines of their pots and have breached the straight edges of the red and white bricked entry way. From the other side, a few pink hibiscus flowers on a couple of rogue flag-pole straight branches make their debut, and a lone vine slithers over the wall’s top.
Something influences me to turn left toward the water today and I do. Ahead, I can see oranges and yellows mixing in the eastern sky with the sun just now beginning its rise over Anastasia Island across the bay. The winds are light, so if I am lucky when I reach the sea wall, the sailboats and their masts will be reflected in the still harbor waters, always a delightful sight at the end to a good morning walk.
Still, I wonder – as I wonder each time after turning this way or the other upon reaching Bridge Street – what would have happened had I first crossed to the other side of the road and tried the latch on that old red gate door; and what would have happened had the latch clicked and I pushed on the door and it actually opened; and what would I have seen on the other side of that gate then?
Before Morning Parade at St. Augustine National Cemetery
There is a brief moment, just as the sun rises above the houses across Marine Street and mixes with the last of night’s shadows, that the grave markers in the St. Augustine National Cemetery display their age before donning their regulation white.
Mystery Man at the St. Augustine National Cemetery
How is it that a sub lieutenant of the Royal Navy Volunteer Reserve rests for eternity in this national cemetery of ours? And, who is it that still comes here to leave a stone of remembrance and respect? And, why is it that this story I will never know has touched my soul so?
You Can’t Miss It!
The statue of Juan Ponce de León at the eastern end of the Plaza de la Constitución points north. Perhaps it is to indicate the location of the Gulf Stream that he discovered, or perhaps it is to suggest that he first landed in Florida a few miles up the coast in 1513.
A Well Fitted Ship
A single masted square-rigger anchored in the harbor last night. I have never seen such a boat before, but it is unquestionably well-suited for this antiquated harbor of ours.
Advancing Fleet
From where I stand on the south side of the Bridge of Lions, I see five boats moored in a row along the sea wall approaching the Castillo’s ramparts, like so many English ships of the line in battle formation.
Les Mémoires Se Réveillent et S’Endorment
This morning at breakfast, upon tasting a slice of Compté cheese for the first time in 47 years, I ambled down a narrow street of worn stones in walled Besançon; I distinguished the subtle differences in a five-mushroom entrée at Les Tables D’antan; I perceived the faint swish of Bourgogne in mouths at a tasting in a cave, I inhaled the fresh sweetness of grass in the field outside the farmhouse where I slept; I clapped the white chalk dust from my hand as I ended my class at the Centre de Linguistique.
Upon looking at the clock on the stove, I realized that I was running a little late; I washed down the Compté with the last of my coffee and put my cup and dish in the sink; I rewrapped the cheese and returned it to the refrigerator; I dressed as I planned my day.
Indian Creek
Searching for redfish
In clear, shallow back waters –
Outside time being
Vilano Images 