| Cranberry Glades by Dave Payne, Sr. Some say the quicksand bogs in the Cranberry Can swallow men whole. Perhaps some ancient Indian, settler corpses Lie mummified in the mire. But black bears and racoons Walk upon the abysm with impunity, As Christ did on the Sea of Galilee. In this botanical paradise, Reindeer lichens, with their antler-shaped stems, thrive, Far removed from their Canadian tundra range. An immigrant of the balmy Mediterranean, Chicory, Grows beside its arctic neighbor. Brewed a millennia ago for knights and lords, It was later prized by explorers who drank its tea And traded its potent roots to natives. Today's chicory generation thrives here, The grandchildren of shavings brewed Over modest Indian campfires. Now, the tourists come. They dodge the bogs, ignore the chicory In their pilgrim search for Bambi. Their hiking feet crush rare fungi beneath- Destroying angel, jack-o-lantern, old man of the woods Lie on packed footpaths with busted stalks and crumbled caps. |
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| Last edited 12/28/01 |