Driving with my daughter this afternoon, she remarked that time seemed out-of-whack — like the day had already progressed to after-dinner time, when really it was late afternoon. I told her the longest day of the year is nearly here. Rain, this summer, has been a steady and weighty companion.
In the woods, the greenery is profuse, the ground sodden mud, everything suffused with a moist verdancy. Mulching in the garden this afternoon, I was quickly wet, but, working, I warmed quickly, and my garden world was rich with scents: wet rock, rotting compost, blossoms.
Any visitor to Vermont, throw out that postcard image of red barn with cupola, Holsteins, babbling brook. Go deep into the woods, into the darkest, most concealed and forebidden place, and lay your hands on what’s there.
The trees that have it in their pent-up buds
To darken nature and be summer woods –
Let them think twice before they use their powers
To blot out and drink up and sweep away
These flowery waters and these watery flowers
From snow that melted only yesterday.
–– Robert Frost