Gardens of the Mind

Yesterday I never entered in my gardens.

But I gardened—in a Salvation Army store and a recliner.

On the first pass through the store, I found no garden art. On the second pass, a wire wheelbarrow called me. First I ignored it. It was too small and would only create garden clutter.

It begged—flashing me an image of itself next to the ceramic country lad resting in the entry garden. Suddenly I see. Of course—he is taking a break from pushing this wheelbarrow.

I’m not sure what he’s been pushing, but the contents are heavy and he deserves a break.

For just a dollar, the boy has his barrow.

In the recliner last evening, the call came from the Burgess catalog—from photos of a purple d’oro, a tree peony, purple ice plants, burgundy gaillardia. . . .

I made a list. I could expand the backyard corner garden along the backyard border and then . . .
This morning, the boy rests while a wheelbarrow of bright stones waits.

The flower list waits for me next to the recliner. Later today, I’ll place an order.

Joy grows from both the gardens in the yard and in the mind.