The House on Hanover Hill
Waking early,the scent of fresh hay already in her dreamsand something else she couldn't recallin the corner bedroom where the peeping sun first peaked.
How her fingersrepolished the banister down the stairs!wet sneakers in dewy grass,her bicycle, propped against the great maple that defined the yard.
Standing in the center of the center field,rowed corn measuring the hills' undulations,the amber waves, a quilter's celebration,concentric reverberations as far as vision,
And the bicycleslipping on the sand as her legdodging ruts, coasting, freewheeling, carefreeswung safely on to the saddle
The colors in crystalgreen, golden, ruby red beside the onion braids,in rowed procession gleamingand the smell of cinnamon and turpentine in the pantry closet.Fragrance of cedarlike a premonitionwhen they brought in the old, wooden chestsand laid in the curtains and linens and dishes and all.
another view of the Farm on Hanover Hill: http://rothphotos.blogspot.com/2011/04/poised-for-spring.html