|A picture I snapped of the Farm on a hazy day. |
I miss it so...
Last year I probably reflected on March 6 by going for a walk around the Farm, taking in the late winter, perhaps examining the sap buckets, wondering where I'd be a year from now (and who would have ever thought Ohio!?); maybe I mulled over another year past as I baked bread. This year found me wishing I was at the Farm for another anniversary, instead I spent the evening trying to stifle strong feelings of homesickness and a longing to get in the car and drive far from the library in Ohio, not stopping until I hit the Massachusetts line.
I am sitting in my apartment, wondering where I will be next year when my thoughts again turn back to that move. Whitman knows how I feel:
"I am enamour'd of growing out-doors,
Of men that live among cattle or taste of the ocean or woods,
Of the builders and steerers of ships and the wielders of axes and
mauls, and the drivers of horses,
I can eat and sleep with them week in and week out. "
~ Song of Myself, Walt Whitman