A number of writers I know are also gardeners. I think it has something to do with a desire for control — or maybe it’s more of an artistic desire to create beauty. No, I still think it’s control. We take seeds, cuttings and bedding plants, tuck them into assorted nooks and crannies in our yard, add a little nourishment and water, and dream about how it will all come together into something beautiful. Sometimes it does; sometimes it doesn’t.
My garden beds always end up a jumble of plants, despite my good intentions. In the one small patch pictured below you’ll find a sword fern and a lady fern (I didn’t plant those… they just growed, like Topsy), hosta, scatterings of cranesbill, a clump of Siberian iris leaves, a golden phitzer juniper, a white astilbe, and some encroaching lamium. They’ve overrun each other and when I look, all I see is a crowded mess.
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