Jefferson's Little Mountain

For I am searching for that special place.
One that sits high atop the rest,
so I may look down upon everything that grows.
From the orchards over to the gardens,
and all the wildlife in its throws.
I wish to greet the first rays of sun at dawn,
then at dusk bid it farewell as it lights the sky afire before dipping below the horizon,
to rest its weary self so that it may again rise tomorrow.

A place where I might see all four seasons.
From the shining heat that is summer,
to the crisp, ragged winds that turn the leaves golden,
only to harvest them, sending them to flight towards places unknown.
For when winter comes I wish to be silenced,
quiet will reign under a blanket of thick, heavenly snow.
Then to witness the stirring of life as it awakes in spring,
and see the release of color and song that has been contained by the cold.

A place that will encourage my interests on leave of public office.
Where architecture drifts by waiting to be captured and trapped forever in stone.
A place where Mother Nature encourages botanical experiments to prosper.
Where the air lifts music and carries it aloft, accompanying it with natures sounds.
A place where correspondence flows freely from the pen, like water down a mountain.
Where ideas float lightly in the breeze until captured by the mind and placed in order.
As I look out from this little mountain it would appear that I have discovered such a place,
and it will forever be known as Monticello.

 

October, 1998