Ten years ago, I saw the stream in the adjacent photo for the first time. Today I sat by the water for a minute to rest from trimming the holly, thinning the newly sprouted lettuce crop, and arranging the salmon geraniums ever so carefully in the terracota pot on the edge of the deck.
Sitting there, I noticed a wild hyacinth, a wildflower I've never seen before tucked under the rough trunk of the maple tree. The spot was beautiful in the afternoon light. In the still, clear water I could see a young bass swimming aimlessly back and forth.
It made me remember why I wanted this respite, my secret weapon against urban burnout.
When I moved in, I would read Yeats' fine poem over and over. Ten years later, I will share it with you, dear readers.
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore:
While I stand on the roadway or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.