Silver is the Farm

The farm this morning, the rain, the absence of shadow, light, except for what the blanket of cloud could not hold back, and the barn more decrepit than ever, felt bound by loneliness. Still, I am drawn to the fields, the buildings, the garden plot that’s been newly tilled, prepped for the seeds which soon will be planted— when this place will be lonely no more.

How does a garden grow?

There should be silver bells, no? No. But silver is here. Silver is the barn, it’s  corrugated-metal-patchwork siding, the windows; silver is the flagpole, the clouds, the puddles in little hollows, the birds, the greyed and brittle sunflowers. Silver, the color of storm. And storm is always followed by an awakening, an unfolding of new life.

Lily of the Valley—a white bell—blossom in early summer. Their creamy color and sweet scent is a lovely contradiction to the old and worn house whereby they root, surrounded by tall, lush green leaves. If one does not bother to look by the weather-stripped door facing the driveway, one will miss the gentle summer bloom of the tiny bells. Later, a rumpus of color will be found in the flower beds: roses, peony, iris, coneflower, lambs-ear, looking like one of Monet’s fields at Argenteuil. The passerby will want to stop and walk through it.

But April, grey April, highlights the barn. In darkness or light, it is a beautiful, broken barn, silver and sage, lonely and loved.

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