On a Tree Fallen Across the Road by Robert Frost (To hear us talk) The tree the tempest with a crash of wood Throws down in front of us is not bar Our passage to our journey's end for good, But just to ask us who we think we are Insisting always on our own way so. She likes to halt us in our runner tracks, And make us get down in a foot of snow Debating what…
"What, if anything, do the infinity of different traditional and individual ideas of a garden have in common? They vary so much in purpose, in size, in style and content that not even flowers, or even plants at all, can be said to be essential. In the last analysis there is only one common factor between all gardens, and that is the control of nature by man. Control, that is, for aesthetic reasons." Hugh Johnson Hugh Johnson created…
April 5, 1974 The air was soft, the ground still cold. In the dull pasture where I strolled Was something I could not believe. Dead grass appeared to slide and heave, Though still too frozen flat to stir, And rocks to twitch, and all to blur. What was this rippling of the land? Was matter getting out of hand And making free with natural law? I stopped and blinked, and then I saw A fact as eerie as…
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only…
The pair of quilts we pieced together, laughing at the future’s far design my handiwork now covers a husband, babies – hers, a corpse. Carol Purington Thank you Carolyn gail for giving me the chance to be twice inspired on this Muse Day. My friend Carol Purington wrote the poem, published in her book A Pattern For This Place, and my friend Lois Holm made this quilt for me when I retired from the Buckland Library. I knew…
Red Brocade by Naomi Shihab Nye The Arabs used to say, When a stranger appears at your door, feed him for three days before asking who he is, where he’s come from, where he’s headed. That way, he’ll have strength enough to answer. Or, by then you’ll be such good friends you don’t care. Lets to back to that. Rice? Pine nuts? Here, take the red brocade pillow. My child will serve water to your horse. No, I…
"Most people, early in November, take last looks at their gardens, and are then prepared to ignore them until the spring. I am quite sure that a garden doesn't like to be ignored like this. It doesn't like to be covered in dust sheets, as though it were an old room which you had shut up during the winter. Especially since a garden knows how gay and delightful it can be, even in the very frozen…
Foliage-viewing – Annual failure to slake Winter’s color thirst. In her haiku Carol Purington captures a season and the necessity of trying to prepare for the monochromatic winter landscape. She captures the colors, creatures and songs of every season at Woodslawn Farm here in western Massachusetts. This haiku is from her book Woodslawn Farm. To see what other muses are abroad and inspiring us, visit Carolyn gail at Sweet Home and Garden Chicago, the host of…
He who bends to himself a joy Does the winged life destroy; But he who kisses the joy as it flies Lives in eternity’s sunrise. Eternity by William Blake The golden days of summer are flying. Soon the hills will be a tapestry of rich color. I've already had to put a quilt on the bed. Many thanks to Carolyn gail at Sweet Home and Garden Chicago for hosting Muse Day and giving us…
Malabar Farm Book Review (of Malabar Farm by Louis Bromfield 1948) by E. B. White “Malabar Farm is the farm for me, A place of unbridled activity. A farm is always in some kind of tizzy, But Bromfield’s place is really busy: Strangers arriving by every train, Bromfield terracing against the rain, Catamounts crying, mowers mowing, Guest rooms full to overflowering, Boxers in every room of the house, Cows being milked to Brahms and Strauss, Kids arriving…