My Home in the Light Grass, November 2019

You are on a rural road in Delaware.  There is nobody around.

 

 

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The piedmont at Mt. Cuba greets you.

 

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sprays of hair-awn muhly in pots

 

 

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You take a path through the formal and experimental gardens of Mt. Cuba.  To a lake.

 

 

 

 

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Past the autumn tree sprays on the right.  

 

 

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And on the left, the witch’s brooms of white pine.

 

 

 

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You are looking for the light beyond these trees.  That is the meadow garden.  Planted as a garden and tended as such. 

Native flowers – now almost all gone – but predominantly planted with native grasses.

 

You reach the lake.  Actually more than one.  But one big one. 

 

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Your eyes are on the sourwood tree on the other side of the big lake.  In early November it is red.

 

 

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You circumnavigate the lake. 

White nodding ladies’ tressses protecting themselves at the water’s edge

 

 

 

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There where the light is, beyond these trees, is the meadow garden.

 

 

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You notice how insistent are the reflections of the trees in the water

 

 

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The sourwood tree would be upon you if it were more robust.  But there it is and you cross the little bridge below it.

 

 

 

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before you turn away to walk onto the meadow path.

 

 

 

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It slopes upwards along this side of the meadow.

 

 

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There are two trees in the meadow:  you pass the white oak first.

 

 

 

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You reach the corner of the meadow and make a left turn. 

The second tree, a flowering dogwood, is bare now.  Shrunken.

 

 

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You make a second turn to the left and follow the meadow’s length. No slope here.

 

 

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The wind picks up and dies down.  Only the wind for company.

 

 

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You reach the pathway out with the holly greeting you.

 

 

 

 

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Back onto the roads of Delaware and to the city. Your eyes pulled constantly upward.

 

 

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You keep reverting your attention to the road.

 

 

 

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A meadow garden in the late Autumn.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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