This Heron is my Muse

David bought me this heron as a gift during the spring of 2009.  A gift that sits weathered in the center of my garden among the lichen-covered stones and cracked birdbath. 


2009. A turning point in my life and in my garden.  


With the heron as my muse, I seed curves of bull's blood beets and rhubarb red swiss chard.  Arugula and chamomile rest in drifts along the field stone steppers anchored into the sandy loam.  Although I still pull out the quackgrass that invades the perimeter, I leave the milkweed and bergamot that have crept in.  I've relaxed my rules a bit.


My dad doesn't understand my garden design.  He taught me to lay out straight lines to create straight rows.  "Makes the tilling easier", he said.


"It does make sense", I say to myself.  But I'm still seeding curves instead of rows this year because I like how it looks.  My garden, with the exception of my metal muse, is living, breathing art.  Art that produces a bunch of chocolate mint tea, potatoes and gigantic sunflowers when all is said and done.


I love the planting and weeding and wandering through almost more than the harvesting.  It gives me a chance to keep tabs on the phoebe family under the deck.


My garden. 


This spring I finally have time to write about it.