The Pond

I have written before on the vagaries of our country property; it is far from the manicured perfection of our suburban subdivision lot outside St. Louis. Here, green is the new grass. If it’s green it counts as an acceptable ground cover. No more will I try to dictate what or where things grow. What are dandelions except charming seasonal flowers?

What I do love are the spaces around our home that beckon. In our previous life, the lawn was to be observed and admired. In New Hampshire, we have naturescapes that seduce and lure you outside. At the front of our property, undulating below a stately band of trees, is a beautiful moss carpeted area next to a winding brook. Two of those trees have hooks just waiting for the hammock that will stretch between them and offer shaded respite from the summer heat. Just beyond, on the other side of our white picket fence is what I call our “fairy garden”, beautiful perennials and dwarf plants and a bench to sit on and take it in.

It is our pond, though, that I love the most. It is little more than a seasonal drainage receptacle, but now, when it is full and dark, it promises mystery and a watery passage to the woods beyond. The rain dances across its surface, fragmenting the reflection of the tall trees above. There is a large flat topped boulder set on the sandy shore dotted with wild flowers perfect for sitting and contemplating nature and life’s mysteries. If I were a child, it would transport me completely to other worlds and tell me stories only I could hear. Maybe if I sit and look into its depths long enough, I may yet hear them.