“Ben, I want to be a gardener.”
“A what?”
“A gardener. And I want you to teach me.”
“Oh,” said Ben, and chuckled.
And so it was.

At first I shadowed Ben, stood behind him and solemnly observed. The first thing I noticed was how little he spoke, how deliberately he moved, and how cumbersome he found it to communicate his thoughts to me. Giving me a task was a sacrifice to him. How could he forsake cradling each and every seed, nestling each one beneath the soil with his own wise fingers, fingers he trusted, fingers in accord with his thoughts.

Let me show you my garden, so you may understand why I love it as much as I do.
Here, on this ornate bench beneath the cascade of Rose vines, my heart first opened up to love. The hand that turned back the petals and revealed the heart was the hand that put this ring on my finger.
Here, under the boughs of these cherry blossoms, I learnt that this Love must die a young death.
'Twas walking between the rows of gardenias here that my broken heart was healed.

This is a tale, (or story, or whatever you prefer to call it) about me weeding my garden. Rather my mother's garden.
Weather: Very beautiful, despite it being extremely winding.
Garden size: Roughly 30x150, (It's very large)
We begin our story right after we have planted a rose, (not in the garden mind you) We start to put the water hose back when my mother says:
"We really need to clean up the garden"
The response from me and my sister,
"Why?"
"How long will it take?"

This is just a light-hearted poem I wrote a couple of years ago. It actually took me almost two years to finish. And no, I don't really have a cousin named Alexandra.

Upon that day so deep in spring,
Grandmother instructed me to bring
Myself and sister up for tea,
To greet her well-bred company:
Our cousin Alexandra.

One who, despite her stately air,
Oft' preferred a foreign flair
And few, if any, understood
Her sort of whimsical girlhood,
Fair cousin Alexandra.