I like this <em>because</em>

Fueled by apple cider, I spent the afternoon reacquainting myself with my most beloved street: The Scores. It winds from the Old Course all the way to East Sands, from hotels and academic bastions to rugged sea coast, past the castle, through a village of homes, to a bustling fisherman’s port. I like it because it has everything. Even dry, pungent leaves. I shamelessly admit to shuffling through them to wake up their scent.

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John Ruskin (I have just read) claimed that when you draw, something good happens to you: the ‘I like this’ becomes ‘I like this because . . .’ You start to notice why you like what you like.

Poetry and photography are my drawing. Looking and capturing makes me examine what I find beautiful and why it is beautiful to me. I like thinking about why I like. And, although you despised photography, Mr. Ruskin, it's my way of noticing. I write this post in your honor, pleased that you at least found writing an acceptable medium.

I like walking past the flowers that can never contain their curiosity. They tell me they hear lots of metaphysics and moral philosophy; who knew?!

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The land may not be as lauded as the sea, but it is the hues of the land that set the sea up for accolades. I like you, cliffs and thistles, for your modest colors, for your patience with the sea who adores you and then changes its mind so often.

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I love all of this, but the sight of these buildings positively makes my mittened hands tingle. How I liked you, Castle House and Kennedy Hall, because you let me gaze at the sea while I pondered tone and audience and semi-colons. I’m so very glad to see you, again---you and your soothing view.

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And you, too, pip-squeak! I actually can’t believe you’re still here and I got to see you today. Even if you distracted me from poetry many an hour,  I like you because you brave intense winds and somehow are always, always in the mood to twerp. You rock.


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There are stones piled everywhere along this road, and some have stuck together almost a thousand years. I like the strength from random order.

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You knew this was coming eventually . . .

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At the end of the road hides a small port. The canal is filled with fishing boats, and then a bridge arches from the earthy coast into a still, small world of swans and quietness.

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I like these New England colors, this dream.

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And I like you, oft-trekked path,

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for always leading past surprises (hello, spring!) . . .

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and then back home.

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