A cozy little house, a cottage really, nestled (such a "cozy" word) on the shoulder of a mountain overlooking one of America's most beautiful and history-rich valleys; the Cumberland Valley?
That valley, the width of which, can be seen with a sweep of the eyes from my mailbox, North Mountain twenty miles distant, to the west...
and historic South Mountain looming immediately above me to the east...
a valley that is a riot of colors, both contrasting and complimentary...
in which even in times of drought, beautiful color can spring from otherwise browned turf...
and unexpected rains can leave behind odd little floating, aquatic worlds...
cooled and saturated dirt,
and quenched fruits?
Is it too strong a term for this little house that contains my library, with its familiar volumes and seductive proximity to my garden...
a library frequented by the woman I cherish...
Is it any wonder that I don't travel (as friends insist I should) to Europe, the ocean shore, or even, merely, the great Chesapeake Bay,
but am quite content to merely travel my garden path,
surrounded by friends, both trusted,
and trusting?
Is love too strong a word?
Not from where I sit.
