Counselors in Fryeberg, Maine, 1965
Along the trail to our cabins
night was a pitch-black penetrable
wall us tripping over roots like leggy
limbs wrapped wantonly around one
another no foothold of ground between
them us slipping breathless in the drama
to stay up our eyes searching for a
cabin’s lamp glow to guide us ‘though
it was lights out for the campers.
On clear nights the moon was swallowed
by towering pine’s needle arms touching
one another, grown close and conspiratorial
as thieves enveloping us with their sharp
scent like strong menthol drops piercing
the nose and throat with each intake of
cold August night air
far more pungent
than Caroline’s pine tree hanging from her
car mirror on days off joyful to be able to
smoke freely heading to Conway and once
even Kennebunkport over the speed limit
and the welcome of the bright lights of
the highway heading back.
The next day, drawing en plein air with them
their congregations of pines Crayola Forest Green,
Laser Lemon slants of light piercing the Sepia earth
full of our young selves that almost end of summer
just before fall with all its extravagant dying and us
facing unpredictable perhaps outrageous changes
the pines, in dark and light, shedding needles
when they must, still green and steadfast.
by Carol A. Amato
Editor’s Note: The idyllic wonder detailed in this poem evokes nostalgia for a moment in time that we can only hope will endure as we go through life.
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