Farmhouse poetry

We moved into a farmhouse on Marrowstone Island for ten days as Airbnb Herzog shifts to welcoming my brother, sister in law, and delicious niece and nephew. It’s been well over a year and a half. My nephew just turned one and we haven’t met him in person, which is a stark contrast to the physical presence I’ve felt at milestone moments for my niece, especially the gift of meeting her hours after her birth. And yet, the ties of love and wonder are deep across the miles. I just can’t wait to take in the details of these people I love in a way that Zoom and FaceTime can’t quite capture. My heart is alive with the feeling of anticipation as we await their arrival.

And as we wait, the four of us are settling into the sounds and play of light on the farm—the rooster crow, the porch swing creak, the movement of shadows on the pastures. The stately trees and birdsong, the view through the kitchen window, the owner’s warm hospitality, all are beckoning to us—breathe in the present moment, slowly, slowly.

Although it is set in the winter months, this piece by Ted Kosser spoke to the poetry of walking farmland roads:

Just as a dancer, turning and turning,

may fill the dusty light with the soft swirl

of her flying skirts, our weeping willow—

now old and broken, creaking in the breeze—

turns slowly, slowly in the winter sun,

sweeping the rusty roof of the barn

with the pale blue lacework of her shadow.