Summer in Vermont is so brief that every day matters — or maybe that’s just me, and my own particular worries.
Early Saturday morning and the day stretches ahead. Planting in the garden before the rain. Work emails to answers. A grant project to review. Read on the porch.
A few lines from the incomparable Walt Whitman:
In the dooryard fronting an old farm-house near the white-wash’d palings,
Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heart-shaped leaves of rich green,
With many a pointed blossom rising delicate, with the perfume strong I love . . .
