Why doth my garden languish in such woe?
Where is its spirit of cheer, its joie de vivre in the sun, its very soul? What can I do?
I seek out answers from the gardens of other people that I pass day by day on my travels hitherforth betwixt my farm and the big, wide world. I could actually ask questions of the gardeners themselves, but then they might think I was weird.
And of course I am NOT weird, so that would give the wrong impression.
I will ascertain the answers by myself, with naught but my psychic intuition. I am one with the soil.
This garden is lovely. Its rows are neat, orderly. It basks beneath the blue sky in a sense of peace with itself and its gardener.
I narrow my eyes, focusing intently on the garden, letting it speak to me.
I can’t hear anything, so I speak for it: “My owner is a master gardener.”
OH. Well, never mind. You can’t compare apples and oranges.
I find another one. This one grabs my heart with both fists–it’s huge! Look at that!
There’s even a place for grapevines right next to it! What a garden!
I wait for the garden to speak, but it is silent. I speak for it: “My owner has hired help.”
Of course!! CHEATER!!!
I move on. This garden is my favorite. I’ve been watching this garden for years. In another month or two, it will look like it belongs on a magazine cover. This is always, hands down, the most beautiful garden in the county. I focus again, begging for its secrets.
And yes! This garden yields to my power and speaks to me! The garden says: “My owner–”
No, wait. WAIT. I see the owner!
The garden continues, speaking to me over my panic. The garden can’t be stopped from giving me my answer: “My owner WORKS IN THE GARDEN.”