My garden is a well loved spot. I stand for minutes at a time imagining the wondrous way it will be laid out. The birds laugh at me even as they eat the seed I've hastily deposited.
My garden is a sadly neglected plot. Overgrown daises fight for sunlight with straggly weeds and carefully seeded grass waves indifferently in carelessly untended languor.
My garden is a joyful place. When the rose blooms, and blooms, and blooms- it's yellow ruffled skirts flirting; tempting a closer look. All is verdant and robust.
My garden is alive! The things I have planted in its soil, the things that have planted themselves there and all the visions and hopes that it cultivates in me-for all of these, I give thanks.