good_gardens_deserve_good_work ovenbird But I’ve forgotten the art of tending. Or maybe I can’t summon the energy to care. Ten years ago I threw out my back digging new beds, turning peat moss into the clay, letting my sweat salt the soil in the hope that something would grow. I bent my spine to the earth while my infant daughter slept; I rolled out fresh sod like the most luxurious invitation to bees in their royal attire; I hefted bags of sea soil so the earth could feast on all the nitrogen it needed to thrive. And it grew. The garden grew and then the creeping buttercup began choking the iris and the creeping woodsorrel seeded itself explosively and drove out the irish moss and crab grass invaded the lawn and it all became too overwhelming to contemplate so I stopped going into the yard, opting instead for the sterility of the upper balcony where the maple makes a tree house in the air. These days I tend red soil and words are my only plantings. In the yard my dog pees on the drooping hostas. This garden deserved better. But I’m getting old, and I don’t know how to start over. 260914 what's it to you? who go blather from