At my grandparents’ house, there are also the quiet places. These are the places where the bees tediously buzz to the rhythm of summer, where a flurry of birds or a family of frogs can be sighted on any given day or where the deer come for lunch. If you seek, you will find those thoughtful corners of the house where chess is played, politics are observed, and wood is measured twice and cut only once. A diary is not far away, nor the sly, witty joke not in play. In fact, all one needs to do is to stroll down the lane (in whatever season), or detect that tint of garlic in the air, and you will feel peace overwhelm your soul.
The poem is Copyright 2012 by Jessica Anne McLean. All rights reserved. File sharing is encouraged.
The Rose 
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