A BRAWL IN THE GARDEN BETWEEN THE MONTAGUES AND CAPULETS -- EXCEPT THIS IS NO ROMEO

The garden, however beautiful to me in the early morning hours, is filled with imperfections and territorial positioning.  Take, for instance, that Siberian Elm tree, an unwelcome visitor who has taken up residence in the corner Spirea.  He must have clandestinely wind-pollinated himself during the Time of Great Neglect when I was preoccupied in Genny's battle with cancer, because I didn't notice his presence until this Spring.  He's entrenched now -- and the lovely Spirea is smitten with him, having enfolded into her cascading branches his slender but sturdy trunk.  She permits this Elm's huge ego to manifest itself in that corner of their shared life, where his serrated Lancelot-like leaves prominently crowd out her white flowery beauty.  I detest him, for he's no Romeo.  In fact, he's a trash tree but I'm not sure how to rid her of him.  I won't trick him into taking the poisonous potion since doing so goes against all of my organic values.  Besides, I might then inadvertently harm her.  They are so enmeshed with one another now that if I try to uproot him, she will surely follow.  I'm far too fond of this Spirea to cause her demise -- she was one of the first we planted in our new home eight years ago and she's now taken on the beauty of a princess who has come of age.  I suppose as I prune and chop away at his inflated ego, cutting out those overcrowding branches and spear-like leaves while hacking away at his trunk, I must somehow tolerate that a portion of him will stubbornly remain intact.  Buddha calls me to acceptance.  As unlikely and unattractive pairing as they are, they have become one now.  But I won't let him have a harem.  That Siberian Elm has already tried moving into the sister Spirea.  The Caretaker is back and any further saplings are going to be quickly plucked.

A nod to the western wall, however, brings me back to those little perfections offered by the garden that make my role as caretaker so worthwhile, for today, at last, my favorite child has emerged -- the Clematis has bloomed.  Yeah!  Why do I every year anxiously await the first blooming of this vine?  The only thing I can write is that when the Clematis comes alive, it is as if I am miraculously transported from this dry prairie land of the western plains into an English garden.  I am in awe of the singular beauty in the flowering of this vine, with its long slender tendrils that caress their way up a wrought iron trellis.  With the Clematis, my Pueblo-style stucco house becomes a country cottage, and suddenly I am compelled to host a cream tea on the patio.  But instead, you're more likely to find me sipping a well-balanced Merlot as I witness a spectacular setting sun slide down the mountain range, casting burnt orange rays against the green Clematis vines bursting in purple.  That you won't see in England.  We need to appreciate where we are planted, even if our western gardens can only minimally mimic the wild-natured beauty of an English garden.

Tomorrow -- off to another's garden in pursuit of a memory plant for a dearly loved young woman, taken far too soon by that terrible Leukemia monster.  See you at two o'clock Shelley.