O is it true? We’re supposed to get, maybe 8 inches snow by Monday! I dug out my cross country ski gear from behind my biking gear. There they alike in trembling hope repose!
Come quickly, my lord Frost!
I want to see how black the flowing streams and rivulets, and the pines, look against the snow. I want to see the shivering copper of the beech leaves looking somehow pink against the pristine sparkling landscape.
Elinor Wylie, the daughter of a governor of Pa born (and buried) not far from here, wrote a poem called Wild Peaches. Her lover tells her how wonderful it would be to live on
the Eastern Shore, what we call “DelMarVa”, where it never gets really cold, Nature is mellow and fruitful all year. She says:
Down to the Puritan marrow of my bones
There’s something in this richness that I hate.
I love the look, austere, immaculate
Of landscapes drawn in pearly monotones.
There’s something in my very blood that owns
Bare hills, cold silver on a sky of slate,
A thread of water, churned to milky spate
Streaming through slanted pastures fenced with stones.
#metoo, Elinor! Especially that last line. In our area, people walked here from Philadelphia, and set about clearing the hilly land for planting, they pulled big, I’d say jack o’ lantern sized stones out of the ground ( this area is a glacial morain) and piled them in lines to mark the boundaries of their fields. Backbreaking labor! Valiant effort! I own a piece of property, a former farm, whose fields are so fenced. And springs, the “threads of water” abound.
Thanksgiving is officially over, but I never cease to be thankful that my lot was cast here in our beautiful state, amidst our venerable mountain range!
Now…if only we get that snow!