Monday, May 25, 2015
I consider my garden (though it is amateur in the extreme) to be an accessory to my person; is is as dear to me as an emerald necklace. I'm yards from an English cottage garden genius and an ocean away from Keats and his vining fruit that "'round the thatch eaves run," but I do have honeysuckle that is doing very well and a bank of hostas that seem happy and would probably say so with their plump variegated leaves if they could speak.
I can count on the irises. The sunniest southern corner is a bed of lavender, and I like that. A bed of lavender.
And now we're moving and of course I care about managing my housewares through the transition, "all the plate," as clever Thomas Cromwell would have said of Henry the VIII's stuff, but what I really feel for are the plants and I'm uncertain about the etiquette of digging up perennials under the cover of darkness with only a sliver of a moon and trundling them up to the new house in a child's wheelbarrow.