Avonlea

Prince Edward Island breeze—

my nod to every stranger

on the road

                                                                                                run-down orphanage—

                                                                                                the sound of crying

                                                                                                from somewhere inside

cracked slate—

my corrected spelling

held up to the class

                                                                                                green hair

                                                                                                worse than red—

                                                                                                the young girl’s pout

haunted woods—

out of breath

at the farmhouse door

                                                                                                smell of sea salt—

                                                                                                the woods haunted

                                                                                                by nothings

amethyst brooch—

the sermon quite forgotten

yet again

                                                                                                ice cream

                                                                                                dripping off her chin—

                                                                                                the girl with freckles

morning at Green Gables—

a cherry tree in bloom

outside the open window

                                                                                                great big field—

                                                                                                saying a prayer

                                                                                                to the blue blue sky

beyond the moonlit orchard,

spruce boughs

tossing in the wind

                                                                                                bright river—

                                                                                                dust from the farm road

                                                                                                settles on the spruce

cows mooing in the distance—

I let the class out

early

                                                                                                remembered in old age—

                                                                                                my dream to live

                                                                                                beside a shadowed brook

fewer freckles now—

sea breeze as it used to be

on my cheeks

                                                                                                the road turns

                                                                                                where the brook and river meet—

                                                                                                nodding birches

checkered light—

the bend in the road

calls me on