Life at The Perry Farm
Our autumn meadow isn't much to look at from a distance: It is a tangle of grass and weeds, much of it brittle and wind fallen. It is not a meadow of romance, full of silky, waist-high grass. In fact, if Keith and I started on opposite ends and ran toward one another, we'd trip in... Continue Reading →
Cottonwoods grow up along the margins of whatever landscape we humans denude and then occupy. But this is their grace and their history, to grow unbidden, untended, and yet beloved.
There must be a better word for the in-between, something more positive than “purgatory” or “bardo.” Whatever it is, we are there now. It is early March, and though the sun is shining and the birds have gotten so noisy they wake us up at dawn, it still is too cold to oblige us to... Continue Reading →
M. H. Perry 