Prince Snow Farm



Drip. Drip. Drip. I stood at the foyer door looking out over the wave of ferns and lush green maples. The sound is what caught my attention first. A steady drip from the gutter onto the leaves of a large potted rose below. A rose waiting to be planted in one of the gardens down the hill. Yet here I was again, surrounded by gray skies and plump drops falling in an endless stream. 

I have been patient. I have been hopeful. I have stood in knee high boots with hair plastered to my face and cold, damp, goose bump covered arms coveting a fleece blanket. (Or perhaps something steaming hot with an indulgent shot of Bailey’s). I have let the drops encircle me for a bit…doing their own rain dance of sorts as I tried to tuck at least one bed with seeds. 

Yet here I stand as skies fade from pale pewter to charcoal, nose pressed hopefully to panes of leaded glass. My world has become a jungle of leaves and blades and petals, shades of green from a Crayola box morphing into an eye-catching scene from Van Gogh’s Irises, although absent is the sunny backdrop.

The rain has forced me to stop and contemplate a moment in time that otherwise would have been forgotten, if not nonexistent. A brief flicker of time spent enveloped in one’s own senses. Overpowered. Overcome. Overjoyed. Forever grateful.


  1. I'm loving your poetic way of writing, Monica. It really resounds with me. I have so many outdoor things to do and when the rain comes I think (and explained to my children"The rain is good for the garden." It taught me a bit of patience and a love of this natural drench of thirst for my plants!

    Wow, you have a lovely garden!

    Jane x

    1. Thank you so much, always my happy place!

  2. Then you are the luckiest person on earth. It will soon get miserably hot here, so I'm counting these perfect days.

    1. You have me laughing Donna. I do wish we could find a perfect climate!


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