Today I sudden missed my real, clay-planted, heavily tilled garden. Somehow the browning fall garden gently tinged with frost or cold is extra-special.
I've been getting little twinges of missing-the-garden and missing-my-plants, but when I walked out to the gym tonight in the chilly coldness, I could feel my old garden ground chattering to me as it cooled to a winter drowse.
How else can I explain the feeling? The Texas star hibiscus that I planted in pots this year never bloomed. They didn't have nearly enough root space.
And even though I love my little square foot garden, it isn't the same -- I put 5 years of work into that garden. Not just 5 years of work, but 5 years of struggling with the clay, of pulling that stupid Bermuda grass. Five years of finding extra-special and kinda crazy plants, of making a garden with personality. Personality from vibrant color, from varied shape, from oft haphazard design.
I wondered if I would miss the garden, but I told myself that I had released it, had let go when I handed it over to the landscapers to make it look polished for sale and market listings.
That's the trick of the land. You never know when it's going to touch you.
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2 comments:
Good heavens docarwen, this isn't a blog...it's poetry! what an enjoyable read.
That sounds like a pretty intimate relationship! I'd miss it, too.
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