They’re not even ours. The twin spruce trees with gnarly intertwined branches belong to our up-the-hill neighbor. Given the vagaries of property lines here in coastal Maine, however, they are right outside our dining room window. They’re what I gaze at over every meal, almost close enough to touch. I love these trees. And someone has butchered them.
Continue reading “Sprucing Up”
Christine Marie Eberle 