By Penelope Johnson
Editor's Note: This poem about Brookside Gardens in Wheaton was first published on Potomac Patch.
I worked in Potomac for quite a few years (Bullis and Potomac United Methodist Church) and got to know a lot about its history and the people who live here now.
Fascinated by the early history from when Potomac was an Indian trail and through the Civil War skirmishes right here in Potomac and how it affected families and church congregations, I am drawn back often. I live in Rockville and spend every waking minute writing or spending time with family, grandchildren and our dogs, some of whom come with rescue tales (tails!) of their own.
Gold hazel catkins in the wood
and Lenten roses hovering at our feet
bloomed slyly up to our surprise,
a gardeners kiss beneath our eyes,
that they are here before they should
to seem so strangely sweet.
In snow threat still so slow to leave
we dream but only play the fool,
that all the woods could be like this is,
a diadem of sweet Narcissus,
leaving all to want and grieve,
so jealous of that flawless jewel.
Long before time's unthawed cloak
has stopped the freezing burn,
or ceased to play in wicked humor
when spring is winter's gentle rumor
each bud enjoys its unexpected joke,
and has its time amused in turn.
When an aging season seems to hesitate
there is goodbye in ready spirit.
The bird wake comes in light still cold
in the grasp of February's hold
We do, at last, exult to hear it
the sounds of spring upturned but late.