Garden Whimsy

I am devoted to the courteous practise of
recognizing a source of pleasure and
giving credit where it is obviously due.
To that end, season following season
I never hesitate to express my admiration
and gratitude to my singularly well performing
garden, which with a little prompting from
me, extends every effort never to disappoint.
If course nothing and no one is perfect
and so there are the occasional mishaps
more likely attributable to the gardener
than to the garden. It is the gardener
who bursts with pride and it is the garden
which modestly follows instructions, after
all. We commune together, the garden
and me, discuss matters trivial and of
the greatest importance. The trivia is
readily rectified, the more vital issue of
longevity another entirely. I entreat and
cajole, promise and attempt to extract
promises in return, but the garden is
steadfast in its devotion to nature, a higher
much, much higher authority than I am
whose will must be done, and mine set 
aside. For the irrelevant things upon which
no natural laws of nature being upturned
are challenged the garden accedes to my
requests; for the supreme urgency of
temporary departure at the first sign of
winter there is no antidote, my garden is
quite clear on this, obeying the Garden Muse
voice of Commandant Nature, aka Gaea.