Great Wass Island,
The blue blazes are on every
tenth tree along the path in the boreal forest peculiar to
this island. We pretend it is wilderness, that no boy scouts
with paint pots have preceded us.
Off the rocky
balds, we tunnel through stunted pine and scrub blueberry,
watching our feet. To walk this path is to study tree roots.
ends. We are out of the woods. An ancient landscape stretches
in brown boulders and rock pools to a sea of tranquility at
low tide, embraced by conifer promontories. The land is
sublimating salt spray and pine.
If you've any comments on
this poem, Laurie Joan Aron would be pleased to hear from you.