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Poet Commentaries

Garden Planning Time

I am doing a landscape design. Freehand sketches, sans computer.  It is scanty looking just as it should be. It is metaphors, inspiration and shade not yet come.

To help the customer I break down the large project in stages.  Stages not for budget reasons but to translate garden to human.  Computers do not do this.

If they insist on a finished garden they will lose the translation of time.  In this plan there is the purposed random and many cozy rests for the eyes that cannot truly be appreciated for three years.

They are human and would have to exercise a discipline few of us have.  They will have to garden desert and the scant in the early years.  They will have to resist filling the holes not meant to be played with.

Art in nature is like that, stages difficult to see. The craft of gardening is easy but one has to know how to play the empty and the rests.  Always when someone plans a “finished garden” they plan for themselves more work and failure.  Always.

A poem that arose from my sketching…

Towards me comes
stick and bone men
one foot high.

Are they mine?
I call a loud hello
and wave.

They wave back,
or beckon
or shew.
Screeching.
Seagulls.

Mine
with orange suit,
yellow frisbee
and grinning lope
nears

He,
out of breath
and stickly
docks.
Tethering gazes,
spilling tales
of summer breezes.

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