Beds

Well, at this time of the year I�m thinking of flower beds and all the detritus that collected there over the fall and winter and is still there: oak leaves, Brumalia tree branches, dead leaves from whatever was growing there last summer. It�s a mess. And yet the crocuses and the hyacinths somehow find a way to push through all the crap seeking sunlight. Even the bleeding heart is sending up shoots. The poppies I was so sure I killed last year are putting forth their characteristically-shaped greenery. It�s amazing. Truly amazing.

The word �bed� means a place where things lie, be they plants or people. But people lie in a bed to sleep, and seeds are placed in a bed to grow, awakened by the moisture and warmth. It�s only in the fall that perennials sleep, going dormant, and the annuals, spent after a season of sexual excess, die. They die in bed. What a way to go. It is my wish to die in bed, in my sleep, after a life of productivity, like the tomatoes I plant in my garden. They bear fruit, enriching my life, and then go to their well-earned rest when they�re done. And then they end up back in the bed from which they grew, but this time as well-rotted compost, giving back some of what they took out. When I die, hopefully in bed, I would hope that my remains would find their way somehow back into the garden of the world to continue the cycle of nourishment. Cover me over light in leaves.

But in the meantime, I must clean out my spring flower beds or nothing more will grow there except the weeds and grass that don�t belong. Then I can lay down some bedding plants in my beds, and after I�m done, I too can retire and go to bed.

(This is today�s second entry. You�re welcome to go back and read the first if you haven�t already done so. Otherwise please ignore this reminder.)

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