For part of my childhood, I lived in an old, Maine farmhouse beside a lake. I scrambled eggs in a cast iron
skillet on the wood stove and ate Aunt Effie’s homemade bread. She taught me to place apple cores on top of the
wood stove to fill the kitchen with their aroma. One year, we boiled sugar maple sap into syrup. Winter lows
reached 40 below zero.
a red fox flees
from its shadow
twilight through the trees
where wood smoke lingers