Three Ponds and Mt. Kineo Trail

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Will we see it all?

Before the changes of leaves,

Become too heavy?

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The brightest spectrum,

Soaring above the vortex,

Is an urgent signal.

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Is there a message,

Of solitude yet to come,

In this final leaf?

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Little vestiges,

Of sweet summer weightlessness,

Cling to cold branches.

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Where dormant beavers,

Dare not to stir still waters,

For chance of sightings.

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Two ageless tree stumps,

Standing in the stiff fall wind,

are tersely silent.

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In a bold, brash coup,

Burning autumn leaves defy,

Blue October skies.

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And the river flows,

Never in acknowledgement,

Of a single day.

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Ah – crisp waters sigh,

In an introspective way,

In a single note.

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The sharpest color,

Is a cool crystal azure,

In a hidden pool.

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Perfect, soft and smooth –

Hands playing in tall grasses,

Never to need rest.

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Far off the trail.

We peered beyond the marshes,

At a secret lake.

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Such brilliance beheld,

At the edge of the clearing,

Fishing poles aside.

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Then we were crossing,

That spiny twenty-foot dam,

Mud to our ankles.

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Broadcasting ripples,

To a far away neighbor,

The forgotten log.

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Bitter ruby leaves,

Pungeant like ripe cranberries,

Escort the bright stream.

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But not to forget,

What the pond must have been like,

Before we were here.

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The dam challenges,

Any fearing intruder,

Who wants to stay dry.

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And the logging ops,

Smooth out the windy ripples,

In a little cove.

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More spectacular,

More alive or energized,

Than any canvas.

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And unexpected,

The pool below Kineo,

And the high waters.

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There, the Mountaineer,

Standing as a true equal,

To power beyond.

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Just two old friends then,

Finding peace and forgiveness,

In the wilderness.