Where we lived in New York, a stone path led to
a meditation garden that we designed and
built over the course of two summers.
A stone Japanese lantern marked a turn
in the path that took us to a wooden bench
that overlooked the smaller of our two ponds.
The pond was home to tadpoles and bullfrogs,
spring peepers, two mated mallards that
visited us each year, muskrats, deer and
an occasional blue heron, magnificent
dragonflies and a wide, colorful and
musical collection of birds and insects.
That garden was a place of perfect peace
where I went to pause and to free my mind
of wasteful and exhausting commotion.
It is the place where my daughter was married,
where Barbara’s mother daily came and
near where our well-loved dog’s ashes were spread.
So, when we moved to Gloucester, we took with us
the lantern and the bench and the sacredness
of that space and put them in a new quiet place
that looks over the gardens, down the hill
to the salt marsh and the tidal river;
where I listen to the hidden ocean
and the bell buoy off the Annisquam Light
and watch the gulls, egrets and herons over
the marsh and feel peace wash over me again.