In my lately abandoned garden, the little garden ornaments wait for me to gather them inside, safe from the cold winter, although I wonder what they might look like if they stayed outside for the coldest season. They do look like they should remain where they are, but I know the damage winter inflicts.
My "statuary" is nothing grand or indestructible, but they do just fine. See for yourself.
My "statuary" is nothing grand or indestructible, but they do just fine. See for yourself.
This pensive cherub is tucked in by the Henry Hudson rosebush and mock orange shrubs.
This little fellow cuddles his rabbit beneath the Golden Elder.
Two companions share a secret.
Well, St. Francis does stay outside. He is too heavy to move. Besides, the chickadees like him, and perch in the Polestar rose bushes surrounding him.
And here is the kind of secret that the two cherubs might be sharing (although it could be something quite different):
“There are many different stories to tell. It's never the same. Every
day weather blows in and out, alters the surface. Sometimes it is
stripped down to a single essential truth, the thing that is always
believed, no matter what. The seeds from which the garden has grown.”
― From Helen Humphrey's The Lost Garden
― From Helen Humphrey's The Lost Garden
What could this single essential truth be? That the garden also has four seasons, each with its own particular beauty? That even if a garden is abandoned, it is still a garden? That the person who plants the garden is sending a message about herself to the world, even if she doesn't know exactly what she means to say?
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