Yesterday, a spontaneous, unplanned unscheduled walk. I was showing my sister the location of a nest of baby black snakes in our flowers. She wanted to show me some wild azaleas up the road–at least we’re calling them wild azaleas–
And because it was a nice day, and because we could, we followed our noses…. followed a windy path through the woods. A path we hadn’t noticed before. Off to the left, down into a ravine. Into a realm FULL of amazing patches of trillium. Dozens and dozens of trilliums.
Trilliums in their own little colonies, and trilliums nestled into mayapple villages.
It’s hard to explain. The wonder of it all. Their quiet, simple elegant beauty. And most of all, their color.
On our return home, we veered off into an old mountain cemetery that’s located just across the way from our house. A narrow span of woods and a blacktop road separate our house from the cemetery. Still, looking out the kitchen window in winter–pre-foilage– it’s possible to catch glimpses of red from the flags that fly there. It’s an old cemetery. Old. Personal. Down-to-it. Some of the stones are just that–stones. Some of the markers are cast from concrete and imbellished with stones and shells.
A colonel in the confederacy. 30 years old at his death in 1864. And on the stone, information that it was
erected by his nephew who drowned in the Snake River in Idaho in 1890.
At the far end of the cemetery, a small platform has been erected. A viewing platform the looks out into the woods. To the casual observer, there are only trees here. But beneath the trees and under the leaves are more stones. Rocks and stones scattered everywhere.