“If I could put my woods in song
And tell what’s there enjoyed,
All men would to my gardens throng,
And leave the cities void.

In my plot no tulips blow,–
Snow-loving pines and oaks instead;
And rank the savage maples grow
From Spring’s faint flush to Autumn red…”

– My Garden, Ralph Waldo Emerson


The Brook

“The pond had become a meadow
lush with its own dying: a gristle
of lilies and milfoil, a shallow pan
of wither. So little rain had fallen
that summer. The brook, a small canyon
of mud, bisected the meadow-pond,
unflowing, barely wet…”

© David Troupes