Not quite a mile off the coast of Maine
In a chilly northern bay
A speck of land claims a spot of earth;
They call it Fiddlehead Island.
When snowy banks dissolve in May,
In a shady meadow nook,
The ferns uncurl their feathery necks,
And bluets dance with daisies.
Above the splash of the crashing waves,
In the top of a scraggly pine,
An osprey builds its twiggy nest,
As the squawking gulls soar above.
At lowest tide, in a sandy cove,
In the lee of the constant wind,
A picnic of clams is shared by some crabs,
While a seal pup beds in the pebbles.
On the sunny side of Fiddlehead,
In the cracks of the shaley ledge,
The bushes droop with ripened fruit,
As a treat for chipmunks and mice.
When sea blends with sky, and sails skim by,
In the pinkish twilight hours,
The buoy ding-dongs a rhythmic beat
With the swishing of waves on the sand.
As leaves turn crimson, orange, and gold,
In the nip of the changing air,
The long summer days must bid adieu
To the geese as they’re honking home.
“Neath fiercesome waves that beat the isle,
In the face of a nor’eastern wind,
The stinging spray is cold and cruel,
But the speck of land endures.
Beneath the crystal, snowy nights,
In silent patience waiting,
The island dreams, with assurance deep,
Of fiddleheads and berries.
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