Sometimes I turn all the lights off
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
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
250 beats per minute
In the Maine breeze.
Winded, we’ll watch the sticks smolder
Gently envelop our cedar-built homes.
Smoke parting for the North Star.