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Poetry corner



Former Penobscot resident Carol Lovely moved to Florida three years ago. A recent visit back to Maine, she said, caused her to reflect on what she misses so much about this neck of the woods.

Love of a Place

By Carol Lovely

It’s hard to describe.
It’s a feeling.
A memory that causes you to catch your breath.
You breathe a little deeper.
Without really trying, you find yourself more relaxed.
You feel safe.
Every familiar smell, sound, taste and sight pulls you in a little closer.
You are taken to a place that you love.
Is it home?
Is it where you belong?

The squeak and slam of a wood screen door.
The smell of a skunk.
Acorn bombs that drop onto the car as you drive along on a windy hilly road.
The endless chirping of crickets.
Dooryards that are full of cars that have keys dangling from their ignitions.
Whoopie pies.
Local radio stations that have music without boundaries, foliage updates and songs that you won’t hear anywhere else.
The musty organic spicy smell of fall.
Low tide.
Beach roses. Is this the last rose from summer.
The clear cold salty seacoast.
Balsam pillows.
Gray misty marshes.
An earthy damp basement.
Crimson red blueberry fields that have a fiery glow even on cloudy days.
Front doors that are always kept unlocked.
The crunch of autumn leaves.
Pine trees, pine trees, pine trees.
Fire pits and campfires.
Lighthouses.
Cider.
Tomatoes that burst with flavor.
Granite boulders.
Pumpkins galore and glorious.
The juice from a crisp Mac runs down your chin.
Seaside mountains in the distance that appear to be purple and blue.
Maple syrup and sugar shacks.
Oysters that taste like the ocean.
Very blue wild blueberries.
Dirt roads.
Lobsters.
You breathe in mulch, brine, tree sap, grass, decaying leaves and brine again.
Meandering rock walls.
A chainsaw buzzes then suddenly stops as you hear branches breaking and a deep thud — the felling of a tree.
Firewood in piles and firewood stacked in neat rows close to mudroom doors.
Soft sand that sings when you run across the beach.
Road names like Slack Tide Lane, Peaceful Place, Lupine Way and Carrying Place.
Moss and ferns and 50 shades of green.
Rusty tractors.
Misty clouds and fog that clings to the hillside.
Waterways like Passagassawakeag River,
Cobbosseecontee Stream and Umbagog Lake.
Five deer in the yard.

These are just words. But I have written them down lest I ever forget the delight and soaring joy that they bring.
These things have become blessings to me, and I am indeed thankful for each and every one.
I think it has to do with comfort and being surrounded by what is familiar. For whatever reason, this is the place I love.

 

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