Early August and high in the tree tops, by the mountain ridge, maples and oaks are starting to show the first intimation of fall colors. Last night it was cool down into the fifties and we huddled under the cotton blankets. For weeks, we’ve been enjoying the glorious enchantment of summer with day time temperatures soaring into the nineties. Summer in Vermont! Baseball, sports of all kinds, picnics, parades, swimming in the West River, kayaking on Sunset Lake, paddle boarding by the marina, bike riding in Guilford, and lying in a hammock on a star filled night with your love, dreaming till sleep comes. Vermont, this tranquil island of forests and farms, and soaring to the mountain ridges
I am a gypsy and love to travel the globe; however, now, I will travel here in southern Vermont, rediscovering sanctuaries in the forests, and the chilly delight of the Green River waterfalls by the covered bridge. Kayaking at sunset in the West River and allowing the kayak to lazily float down the river. Friends write and invite me to New York and beyond, but I refuse as best I can and say, “I’m too busy with summer.”
This morning in early August, the air is cool down into the sixties, and though the trees are filled with green leaves, the intimation of autumn is near. For myself and my neighbors, our firewood is mostly stacked and the kindling wrapped in bundles. Tomorrow, I will clean the chimney and put in the parts that I ordered two weeks ago. The summer has been filled with fixing, repairing, mending the roof, painting the house, cutting firewood, making new decks for the backyard, cleaning out the flowerbeds, and the chores that are part of our daily lives. This is the web of life in Vermont. Yes, busy but not too busy. Enough time with family and friends to enjoy this splendid long summer. I’d like to think that the summer will continue all the way into October and beyond. Perhaps, the autumn leaves will remain till the first snowfall
As I live in this paradise of blue Heron Pond, my eyes open at dawn till the first rays of sun as I sip my coffee in my slow morning meditation. The yellow daisies with butterflies dancing, purple asters, red bee balm with the darting humming birds, Echinacea blossom and flowers across the meadows. The sounds of robins and blue jays are the morning’s chorus. The blue heron slowly glides to the center of the pond and preens on the rock. Time slows down. I savor every moment of the summer day.
Yes, still much work to do on the house, more fixing and mending, getting ready for the fall, neighbors cutting hay in the nearby fields, but the task most important of all is to savor every bit of the summer. I store the memories of the hot summer days, cool nights sleeping by the pond, starlight bursting across mountain skies, and the reveries of moonlit nights. All these memories summer in Vermont I store it in my soul as the chilly autumn beckons.
I watch sunlight dance across the pond, a ripple of a breeze flows across the top and the ferns and hemlocks wave in the first morning light. The sun is strong. I look up at the stout silver maple at the top of the ridge and see the leaves beginning to turn to autumn. Nevertheless, today will be perfect to swim in the chilly pond at noon, beneath the vibrant green forests of summer.
Eternal Summer from “Vermont My Home”
High summer in Vermont,
trees are a dense collage
of leaves and a thicket of
green as far as the eye can
see — hundreds of
trees in my sight –
stout plump firs,
shaggy hemlocks,
virile oaks, and
maples dreaming of
flaunting their flaming
red and orange leaves
that lie hidden deep
within the summer
green.
Tiger lilies
voluptuous
in orange!
Red bee balm invites
the humming birds,
purple cone flowers,
succulent yellow
coltsfoot, and
lavender irises
are a vibrant bouquet.
Have you ever listened
to the sleeping dreams of
a silver maple tree on
a full moon lit night?
Then snuggle close,
while you sleep, one
ear to the ground and
hear the roots’ restive
dreams of reaching heaven,
My church is these sacred
green mountain woods:
towering oaks that keeps
alive every seed spoken
since the beginning of time,
generation to generation,
in that protoplasmic essence
that holds the mystery
of life.
By the green murky pond
a bower of willows
leans together and their
supple tendril fingers
meet like folded hands in prayer,
when I part the cat-tails,
the squishy ooze seeps between
my toes and draws me down
to the primal muck in the
pond. I float on my back
arms spread wide, adrift
as the pearlescent clouds
and the pale indigo blue
sky parts wide. I am a seed
floating inconsequentially on
the water more thoroughly
anointed than even John
the Baptist could aspire to.
We are blessed in our love
and loving for this land.