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  • The road, in that direction, takes me back to the riot of oriental poppies blazing orange in the first green of spring.
    The road on stage right leads me to a path that skirts the edge of an island. The path faces another island who’s profile sinks with the weight of ancient mountains, Sargent, Penobscot, Cadillac, Acadia, Flying mountain to name a few. The path disappears into tall grass or spruce branches, but emerges again. It just cannot decide whether it wants to be wild or allow me passage.
    Vivid green mounds of moss highlight saffron Chanterelles, like a pincushion, or distant constellations.
    And then I entered the enchanted zone where the fairy moss hangs in ragged copper green shrouds from the weathered bark of jagged spruce. The early morning light reflects off the ocean and up-lights the trees so they glow as if illuminated from within.
    I walked there on the Heritage trail, the land bequeathed by time to man, and in part, by my father back to time.
    The path took me on a loop that eventually returned me back to a road.
    Now the road waits for me to quit my summer palace, leave my fine garden, clematis vines, liatris, ripening peaches and stands of bluebells.
    The road needs to take me to the kiln fired brick city.
    The road ends on a sidewalk and a room, that I possess a key for, waits for me. They turn away graciously, allowing me a few more days to compose myself; aware of the conflict they create.
    The sidewalk has often dreamed it was a path. The sand it is formed from comes from a beach where the waves still sing it to sleep.
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