While stepping on carefully placed stones on an errand in the garden of my hours, my eyes scour either side of the path, spotting weeds and winter chores waiting for me. Sometimes a surprise, like strawberry flowers for Christmas.
My garden draws me into its minute details derails my attempts to prevail with straight lines or orderly arrangements, continually demanding my engagement. The weeds are overgrown into the path again. The bees, butterflies, biting ants demonstrate business just like me, finding sustenance in the flowers until their last hours. The dragon breathes her last gusts of fire into the approaching winter. She will hibernate with the first frost and I too will curl up and dream.
I searched for good dirt in the compost with my shovel. I hoed two empty garden beds and made rows. With my trowel I made holes for garlic bulbs in the beds, and buried tulip and daffodil bulbs in my pots and kitchen boxes. With my imagination I see so much more than dirt. I pray that we will all rise toward the sun come spring, and the world will be more beautiful.
My cat is no help in the garden. He doesn't warn me when ants crawl up my pants. He doesn't know a weed from a seed. He sleeps while I sweat and sweat. He wants to play and I shoo him away before he attacks me with his claws and snaps his jaws. My cat doesn't love me. He loves my hat.