In the Country of the Pointed Firs

there is a place remote and islanded, and given
to endless regret or secret happiness
—Sarah Orne Jewett


We hiked the island, shaped like a maple
seed and brushed with wild blueberry,

crunched stones along the carriage paths
then climbed the crest of Cadillac Mountain.

A raft of clouds sailed by. A crew of hawks.
Blue pierced the day with its harpoon, I swear

I saw a breaching whale. You could see the land
bridge far below, the narrows sharp and cold,

and everywhere you turned, the pointed firs.
No tree is a country. No woman an island.

You hit the road, and yet, things follow you.
We stay until the world turns darker blue.

---

Sharon Tracey is a poet and editor, and author of two full-length poetry collections: Chroma: Five Centuries of Women Artists (Shanti Arts Publishing, 2020) and What I Remember Most Is Everything (All Caps Publishing, 2017). Her poems have appeared in Terrain.org, The Worcester Review, Mom Egg Review, SWWIM Every Day, The Ekphrastic Review, and elsewhere. See sharontracey.com.