![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rinueAt best, my gardening could be described as benign neglect. I put some things in the ground, and a few weeks later I go back and look at it, and either it's doing well or it isn't. If it's doing well, I leave it alone. If it's not, I poke it a few times and then leave it alone. If it's dead, I throw it out.
However, I am committed to protracted boundary-setting with the four-story-tall maple tree, which drops buckets full of seeds each year in an attempt to turn my croquet pitch into a forest. It does not matter how many of these seeds we intercept: there are more seeds. If it is not winter, they are trying to come up somewhere. This is what they look like:
While the coffee is being made, I wander around barefoot in my robe, like a vicious and fearsome hunter, pinching up seedlings by the dozen. Until there is coffee, because I'm not some savage.
However, I am committed to protracted boundary-setting with the four-story-tall maple tree, which drops buckets full of seeds each year in an attempt to turn my croquet pitch into a forest. It does not matter how many of these seeds we intercept: there are more seeds. If it is not winter, they are trying to come up somewhere. This is what they look like:
While the coffee is being made, I wander around barefoot in my robe, like a vicious and fearsome hunter, pinching up seedlings by the dozen. Until there is coffee, because I'm not some savage.
