We listen to CDs from The Teaching Company when we travel, and right now we are working our way through the 84 (yes, eighty-four) lectures in the Classics of American Literature series.  We are in the middle of several lectures on Whitman, with whom I have little familiarity. Anyway, so far I have liked Whitman’s city poetry, disliked his poetry on the human body, and been ambivalent about his poetry on death. But, listening to these lectures on Whitman has me thinking in poetical terms, and being home has me thinking about how much Maine means to me, so I put this together (it is meant to be read on more than one level – I am pretty pleased with it).

The Maine

This land gets in me –
Rugged rocks, granite strength.
Deep woods, bent birch.
Rolling hills
That keep sight close.
Myriad waters
Of unknown depth.
Crunching leaves
With short memory
But brilliant hue.
Winter winds
Fresh with snow.
Summer sun
Sparkling on lakeshore.
Moody spring
Come with promise.
Rough rocky coast
Rolling down
To meet the sea
And beyond.