A golden shovel from Emily Dickinson's
"A lane of Yellow led the eye"
April called me to Ball Ground, Georgia on A
day born delicate for daffodils. Two lane
heartstrings, a mid-spring splendor state of
mind. Spaciously alone, I curve Yellow
Creek Road toward Gibbs Gardens, then led
by footpath through Torii Gate, the
entry for "Tsukiyama," Japanese Garden; my eye
a window to the silence of Bonsai Juniper, unto
resilience wept on water by willows, a
space of cultural harmony serenaded by purple
martin, balanced by man-made and natural: wood,
stone, sculptures, and bridges. I strolled, one whose
essence renewed among cherry trees, blossoms soft
in valley; then I trekked strong up hillsides, inhabitants,
rivers of daffodils flowing down golden and white to
meet where the only purpose is simply to scent air and be
seen. I returned in isolated summer to flora whose grace surpasses
sheltering in place, waterlilies below Monet bridge, solitude.
