It's sunny every day these days, warm, in the 80s, and dry all day long. At the nursery, they tell us they are watering twice a day, that we probably need to do the same as well. I haven't been, of course, and the tomatoes have gone through several cycles of thirst and drown, even the raspberry canes are looking a little fed up. Seeds planted don't come up if you just leave them there, in dry beds, with no water. Might as well have sprinkled the seeds in a desk drawer. The dahlias were planted early enough to be small shrubs in one bed, buds intact, but no more than tufts in another. The bed of flowers loved by birds is just now starting to bloom, differentiating itself at last from the beds of weeds of similar height.
The garden is solace and focus, an exercise in absorption, of infinite perfectibility, hopeless love, aspiration, so many other things. There is no loneliness in the garden, as though every plant looking for care was also company. I make my way through the beds, visiting little by little, wondering always what to do next.