South Farm, by Lynne

The soil was rich brown
Mounded high, the texture just right
I saw it as I passed by
Six days into spring

I knew this land, this once farm
In the summer, fields hot and dry
Rows of peppers laid out
Tomatoes ripening in the sun
Fall brought apples, cider, camaraderie

This sight should warm us all
Earth, freshly tilled for growth
My heart ached though
I looked away
No seeds to be sown there
As our urban culture sprawls unchecked

Do I need a map to direct you to this place?
Explicit details on what that land’s future holds?
Whatever road we take
It’s becoming all the same
Growth is good, so I’ve heard
It’s just that land, I knew
And its change, with no reprieve
Leaves me feeling a loss, doubting the season
After all, spring was supposed to bode a new beginning


--Lynne Pharis
March 27, 1998
UK Horticulture Alumnus

Untethered, by Lynne

Images portray the morning scene

To the left, the ceaseless traffic

To the right, a cement enclosure

A corporate pond

Grass and trees landscape its edges like a thousand others, I’m sure

I’m captured though, by this place

Ducks, scattered, oblivious to their structured home

Splash, flap, do what ducks do, make noises I can’t describe

The water responds, ripples, laps its cement shore

It refreshes me, lifts and lightens my soul

A good experience, every morning, as I pass this way.

Solitude, by Lynne

Why is it always so silent

With the first winter’s snow?

A magical moment,

The night sky dark

The earth and trees outlined

With their white feathered blanket.

Sound muted, if present at all

I breathe the air, no frost to my breath

It’s not even cold,

I didn’t expect this

As I stepped outside

I wanted you here

To share this with me.

Is it the lightness?

Is it the lightness of the snow under my feet, the spray of white that I kick up with every step? Is it the crunchy feeling when I hit the ice underneath? Is it the muffled wind that I hear through my hood, or the surprise of birds chirping in this white landscape? Is it the fleece inside these knee high boots, or the fleece lining the long underwear that keeps most of me draft free? Is it the solitude of walking in the Arboretum when the temperature is 16? It might be my dog (Winnie), so happy to be romping free in the snow, her black fur against the white field, sniffing and exploring, then racing back to me at top speed, happy to be outside again after 2 days of bad weather. It might be the feeling of strolling along after scurrying from car to house and staying inside for 2 days. It might be the expansiveness of walking along the path by the trees, away from houses, not having to watch for cars, feasting on the beauty of bare trees against snow. I hear the train whistle now, first to my left, then the wheels rolling down the track, then the whistle again to my right. It might be looking through the trees at the row of houses from the outside. It might be the friendliness shared when I occasionally encounter fellow enthusiasts of winter’s beauty. It might be the way my mind can wander to touch on this concern or that, a quiet conversation unraveling within as I walk along. It might be the thought of my friends reading these words, the hope that they will pause and feel the beauty of this moment too. It might be the thought of my friends, near and far. It might be the thought of us all, journeying.

Sky