Poland Spring

Sometimes I turn all the lights off 

Count yellow 

Through the kitchen window

Searching for Polaris. 

Soft smoke floats above

A burning out filter 

In a mason jar to my left.

Slowly my head sinks into cold tile.

I come across beds of fallen greenery 

Glistening raindrops on forest floor.

Rosy clouds radiating

Milky sunbeams.

Chipped burgundy canoes

Oozing summer sap.

Mile high tree trunks 

Covered by crusted-over bark.  

I long for

The land of the pines

Where my hair was golden 

And my legs were strong

Enough to carry me

Over menacing roots and morning chills

Kicking through olive colored water 

Braking only for my begging lungs.

At night we dance 

With fireflies.

250 beats per minute

In the Maine breeze.

Winded, we’ll watch the sticks smolder

Campfire fumes 

Gently envelop our cedar-built homes.

Smoke parting for the North Star.