Maine Reflections

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virgin soil is still tilled as I walk; oxen strain

to pull a large fieldstone from its place.

The hard crack is heard of stone on stone–

each one upon the last as walls are built up.

Women in long dresses bend, pluck blackberries

from the sun. Inside, precious crimson syrup

seeps through sieves.

Now drumbeats hush as arrowheads whoosh

through air. Long strips of birch bark

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sue baumgardner December 1, 2008 at 1:02 pm #

Cynthia has the ability to take the common, everyday…and make it sacred.
Bravo!
SueB

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carol smallwood December 2, 2008 at 11:48 am #

I’ve never visited Maine but Cynthia’s poems make me free close to fiddleheads, fieldstone, the drumbeats and birch bark of the Amaseconti. Keep more coming! I am familiar with The Aurorean: a great poetry ambassador; her greeting card photography speaks for the Northeast.

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carol smallwood December 2, 2008 at 12:00 pm #

I’ve never visited Maine but Cynthia’s poems make me feel close to fiddleheads, fieldstone, the drumbeats and birch bark of the Amaseconti. Keep more coming! I am familiar with The Aurorean, a great poetry ambassador; her greeting card photography captures the Northeast.

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Katherine Butler December 3, 2008 at 1:32 pm #

Through Cynthia’s ability to capture the perfect moment and preserve it in verse…thank you! This time of year, especially, it is a precious reminder of home. Always continue writing.

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