SLEEPWALKERS: MONHEGAN ISLAND

They are unseen presences on the road,
passing each other unaware
on paths narrowed by aster and bayberry
opening to the sea.

They are walking through what was,
step surely over tangles of juniper,
shifting stones
toward a day of particular happiness,
of clear, full-throated praise.

Far inland, wrapped and sheltered,
they are moving through returning light,
air that has since touched other islands,
circled back and back again,
apple-scented, resin-keen.

Far inland, the sleeping faces give no sign
they have gone away,
their journey as lightly taken,
as easy as the flight of seeds.

Marjorie Mir