Garden

It is the sound.  You can hear the garden-ness on the breeze. Stagnant, they are merely plants.

But no, it touches everything.  The smell of dirt and growth- that lavender or rose that someone  will try to bottle and spray on herself- "can't you tell I am woman? I smell of the womanly garden?" She asks. I place a sprig of rosemary in my car and the air conditioning makes if feel like a very contained garden in motion.

You should want to eat a garden.  Even if it is a flower garden, the growth is most edible.  T hunger to be beautiful by consuming the buds.  The aesthetic minded murderess will poison her lover with oleander. 

I like the butterfly, but I want the ladybugs.  Ladybugs offer luck, butterflies just the frivolous pretty of a debutante.  Ladybugs are useful and red. Marketers say red makes one feel hunger- thematically, ladybugs are more sensible.

There must be a way to walk. I've never thought of this before, but if y are incapable of traveling through a garden without falling over, are you really in the garden?  The rock gardens in Kyoto.  But the monks can enter, and they do- changing the sand designs and rock placement at regular increments. And nature, of course.  Fish can enter the seabed garden at will.  

Can someone possess a marijuana garden? Or does its cropness or illegality ruin it as a garden? But who could say the plant isn't lovely?  More, consider the greenhouse of an abandoned home.  The plants slowly go to seed, they rot an awful stench but a stench of an effort for survival.  Shouldn't that be enough?  Ants creep in, and then the spiders enter looking for warmth. A beehive is built in the corner.  When they die, it happens at once.  The realtor has the whole structure torn down at once- "we can make a lovely outdoor party space here." 

Soft plants are particularly pleasant. Running fingers down the bud or leaf that feels like animal coat. What came first, the cat or the cat tail?  We see our nature in the desire to pull leaves and flowers- I want to rip the whit flower sprig from the sky and capture it in a vase.  I have no idea where the desire to pull leaves comes form, but its there.  Perhaps a strange nostalgia for the petal picking of a girlish romance.  

We wanted in the rock garden.  We leaned over the edge when the monks were away, but th had stretched the barrier enough to omit us.

I am not a visual person.  I'm not sure why.  I stand in front of paintings and think of them and look and look and read the description and watch other people look and listen to audio tours and look and look and look.  But I can rarely feel anything from this looking.  Gardens are far more than looking.  

In the art museum, I will get in trouble for touching or smelling the piece.  In the garden, such practice is encouraged.