June 5, 2013
I love the aroma of the clover and freshly cut grass that has settled over the grounds, and lying outside, it is almost as if the sun itself has a succulent scent. The air is heavy with this sweetness, so delicious you could eat it with a spoon. Crickets gossip incessantly and I can feel an ant crawling down my leg, the back of which toasts likely in the midday light. How wonderfully fortunate I am to have my office right here in this patch of grass in the terraced garden. The roses have just bloomed; they are welcome dots of butter and jam on the sprawling green toast of the lawn.
I am growing into the pace of Weir Farm National Historic Site days more and more. Even with the slightly mundane projects, like taking inventory of the Take Part in Art kits and organizing office supplies, I am able to find a sort of continuum, a oneness with the place that is both peaceful and calming but also utterly engrossing. I am not just a visitor anymore; a certain sense of belonging has been acquired already in these few short weeks. Of course, many visitors will attest to this sentiment; the inclusivity of the park, the way it greets with its sprawling branches and rolling stone walls and careless breezes, transcends time and language. I'll close out with a haiku for Creative Writing Wednesday.
Along the walls, the
leaves a-flutter with the soft
sigh-hear! Weir was here