From a farm that doesn't yet exist

At the moment, Wazoo Farm is blanketed with a soggy layer of snow. If you look out our dining room window, you will see a steep hill rutted with sledrunners; a collapsed cardboard box that holds a frozen pile of kitchen scraps; an aboveground pool with three feet of frozen water sitting within a blue torn liner; and a blown-over length of fence. Through the limbs of the lovely bare locust tree at the bottom of our hill you will glimpse--no, I must be honest--take an eyefull of three moldy looking trailers.

You might think, looking out, that Wazoo Farm is a bust. Wazoo Farm will never be. Ah, friend, but that is because you look through the eyes of the literal gazer.

When I look out of the window of our almost 100-year old Dutch Colonial Revival house, I see a gorgeous, mouthwatering paradise. The pool is gone; in its place is a delightful and very servicable potager garden. Its compact rows of herbs and cabbages and furling peas are accented by wild splashes of zinnias and spicy marigolds. Equipped with proper English harvesting basket, I trip down the stairs every evening to harvest young tender greens for salads. I stride down the stairs studded into our hill, enjoying the scent of sprawling roses at my left. At my right, raspberries and blackberries scramble down the hill through a sea of blooming hairy vetch. At the bottom of the hill, chaps and ladies (and brawny gardening women like me) can pause in their proper days (or sweaty labors) to take a cup of darjeeling in the tea garden. Looking over the rim of your tea cup, shading by the boughs of flowering dogwood and almond trees, you can swoon over the summer bulbs, the bright pink verbena, the heirloom tea roses.

Have I mentioned: my cutting garden, the children's garden, the proper and marching hedgerows, the rose garden, the orchard?

We have 3/4 of an acre on a relatively busy street. I say relatively because we live in a small town in western PA (Pennsyltuckey, as our dear but eastcoast-snob friends sniff down their city noses). Okay, so it's a mining town with a small but robust college (where my husband teaches poetry). It's got a motely assortment of gorgeous old houses in varying condition, some modest depression-era houses, and some trailers to keep us all grounded. It's one of the poorest, if not the poorest, areas in Pennsylvania and in the United States. West Virginia, with its green bosom, snuggles close. It can feel grubby, poor, and sad.

But look around when spring creeps up. A short drive takes our breath away. The hills are jewel-like and greener than kale. They seem to pulse with a life that makes us think of God. The trees are dense and friendly.

This is a perfect spot for Wazoo Farm. Believe me. So we have no money, no resources, and little know-how. Surely visions, and supernatural longing for the beautiful and productive, will overcome these small hurdles.

Did I mention the spired cities of blue delphiniums?

The winter will end, and so will the spring. By the end of the summer, we will have zinnias, and apple trees, and roses, and all rambling poppy-daisy-hollyhock finery out the wazoo. Just wait. You'll want to come and visit.