The folks up here have granite in their souls
and faces hewn from rocky seaside cliffs.
I nod to them while crossing salt-washed shoals;
their smiles skirt the surface like a skiff.
Back home it’s true: all roots must run as deep
as those of wind-blown pines on island bluffs.
In Maine, folks build their sturdy homes to keep,
say: “this is all we need,” and “it’s enough.”
And though signs said to carry none away
I stole a seastone from the pebbled shore
and took it, heedlessly, far from its bay,
so now it rests inside my city drawer.
What will become of it, become of me–
so far away from home, and from our sea?
Emma Sapat hails from Falmouth, Maine, where live moose have been known to wander into the gas station parking lot. She enjoys reading everything from cereal boxes to Shakespeare, writing poetry, and entering cooking contests. Send her an email at email@example.com.