Saturday, September 19, 2015

It's A Garden Party! - One Last Daisy!

This feature, originally known as Saturday Farmer's Market, was created by Heather at Capricious Reader, and then hosted by Chris at Stuff as Dreams are Made on.

I didn't get any more pictures this week, as I've been working and forgot all about the camera.

I managed to (with help, of course) lay weed cloth under the Fruit trees and mulch them. We had to take out my poor Pomegranate first though. The neighbor's sprinkler system had sprung a small leak and I didn't notice in time.

The tree was in serious distress and I had been checking for pests and disease when the problem was rotting roots. It was so far gone that my husband didn't even have to dig it up, he just rocked the trunk back and forth and it came up. Poms aren't just drought tolerant, they thrive on neglect and can't stand wet feet at all.  We will be replacing it, but it will be going in a different spot, away from possible sprinkler problems.

We also lost our small Pluot tree. I had hoped it would survive but there was just too much damage when the wind knocked the supports from under the heavily fruited branches. We haven't taken it out yet. That will happen after we finish on the front beds.

So, after we replace the Pomegranate and take out the Pluot there will be room for two more trees. We are considering a Sweet Almond. I would love an Olive tree but I think they grow too big for my space.

Any suggestions?

We also laid weed cloth between the Rose bed and the Herb bed, and mulched the whole area. No more grass. I didn't put the cloth in the beds themselves. The herbs are too close together for that, so I will still have to weed them by hand. And I still have work to do with the roses.

The next project is the Lavender bed. I'll let you know how that turns out and hopefully have some pictures of all this.


The Fact of the Garden
 - Minnie Bruce Pratt
With this rain I am satisfied we will be together
in the spring. Seeds of water on my window glass,
transparent sprouts and rootlets. In your backyard
steady rain through the heavy dirt we dug in,
our shovels excavating some history of the tiny garden.

Our blades cut through the design of a previous digger:
rotting boards, rocks, earthworms big as young snakes;
a tarnished spoon, pink champagne foil from a party;
a palmful of blue feathers from a dead jay.

We dug and planted. We intend to have a history here
behind this rented house. Despite the owner there is a secret
between us and the ground. In the wet dirt, our fleshy bulbs
and the pink cloves of garlic are making nests of roots.
The fact of the garden has satisfied me all morning:
that we worked side by side, your name round
when I spoke it: that my fingers worked in the dirt like rain,
the ground like a made bed with its mulch of leaves,
orderly, full of possibilities, acts of love
not yet performed.
                            Now the water’s slap on my window
has made me think of something else, suddenly,
what I don’t want to, the way I wake up in the night,
think I’ve heard a gun shot.
                                           The memory, news story
you told me a week ago: the farmers south,
far south, El Salvador, afraid to go into their fields.
What does their dirt look like? I don’t know.
Instead I see that some thing is being planted:
U.S. soldiers watching as others bury a dead
hand, arm, head, torso.
                                    To be afraid
to put your hand into the dirt. To be afraid to go
look at your ground: that it has been cut like skin,
will bulge out like cut muscle: that on a fair day
there will be subterranean thunder, then a loud, continuous
hiss of blood.
                      I wish I could see only the flowering
bulbs voluptuous in the spring.
                                                But what is planted is
what comes. In the fall, plant stones: in the winter,
the ground gapes with stones like teeth.

I hold to the plan we thought of: small: full of
possibilities against despair:
                                              us handing out
sheets of paper, thousands, the list of crimes:
sharp thin papers delving up something in people
in parking lots, shopping malls.
                                                 What will come of this?
Perhaps people to stand with us outside the buildings,
to say again: Not in my name. Words adamant as rock,
and actions, here, in the coldest months, before
soldiers move again in the fields to the south.

from: The Dirt She Ate: New and Selected Poems. Copyright 2003.

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