The great Mother has wrapped this urban garden in a mantle of ermine sprinkled about with diamonds. The saffron colored fingers of the winter sunlight probe the niches and crannies to reveal jeweled encrusted treasures.
The garden in winter is never lovelier than it is on a sunny frosty morning after an evening snow fall.
Unlike the distant horizons of the country side, the land here in Town is countered and shaped by fences, roads and houses. It is a mosaic of varied bits and pieces created by property lines and residential architecture. While it lacks the spaciousness of distant horizons it has its own kind of beauty.
Once this neighborhood was part of an endless prairie ringed round with ancient hills and delineated small brooks and ponds created by the departure of the glaciers.
This small plot is mine by proclamation or a deed that bears my name. But that claim to ownership is no more permanent than were the glaciers that once covered it.
How arrogant are we then to claim we can own the land. The land belongs only to itself. Regardless of how badly we treat it or how well we maintain it in the end the land will always regain it’s autonomy. With the passage of eons of time our occupation of the land will ultimately be of little note, a mere blot on the ancient story of an earth that endures even as t he ages roll across its surface like waves that break endlessly on the shifting sands of time.