We've an especial horde of private
treasure in urns of Renaissance design
and heft, pots of Mediterranean origins
contrived of terra-cotta, glazed and not,
stone impervious to weather and ageing
gracefully, moss-impregnated and
haughtily-stately; all devoted
to our consuming garden deceit.
Nature never did design such homes
for her delectably lovely flowers whose
origins, shapes, textures and colours
fixate the senses with their exotic appeal,
their sensuous gracefulness and aromatic
fragrances bringing the insect world
to worship at their mysteriously nectared
and irresistibly-pollinated interiors.
Those miniature gardens, whose
tenants we so hugely admire represent
the cosmopolitan aristocracy whose
migration from the Himalaya to
broaden their horizons and our
gardening prospects captivate and
enthrall us with their heady beauty.
In those minuscule gardens are
creative choices of foliage and flowers
allowing us the freedom of manipulating
conceitedly what nature has obligingly
provided in our self-centric devotion to
surpass in fortuitous design what she
has nonchalantly produced. The result,
a satisfied sigh of providence as the
garden containers bloom and thrive
their sumptuous entrance to summer.
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