garden

Oh, I thought of calling it Journeyings in Germany. It sounds well, and would be correct. Or Jottings from German Journeyings--I haven't quite decided yet... (Minora)

There is something subversive about this garden of Serena's, a sense of buried things bursting upwards, wordlessly, into the light, as if to point, to say: Whatever is silenced will clamor to be heard, though silently.

...there's never a garden in all the parish but what there's endless waste in it for want o' somebody as could use everything up. It's what I think to myself sometimes, as there need nobody run short o' victuals if the land was made the most on, and there was never a morsel but what could find it's way to a mouth.

Turn that worthless lawn into a beautiful garden of food whose seeds are stories sown, whose foods are living origins. Grow a garden on the flat roof of your apartment building, raise bees on the roof of your garage, grow onions in the iris bed, plant fruit and nut trees that bear, don't plant 'ornamentals', and for God's sake don't complain about the ripe fruit staining your carpet and your driveway; rip out the carpet, trade food to someone who raises sheep for wool, learn to weave carpets that can be washed, tear out your driveway, plant the nine kinds of sacred berries of your ancestors, raise chickens and feed them from your garden, use your fruit in the grandest of ways, grow grapevines, make dolmas, wine, invite your fascist neighbors over to feast, get to know their ancestral grief that made them prefer a narrow mind, start gardening together, turn both your griefs into food; instead of converting them, convert their garage into a wine, root, honey, and cheese cellar--who knows, peace might break out, but if not you still have all that beautiful food to feed the rest and the sense of humor the Holy gave you to know you're not worthless because you can feed both the people and the Holy with your two little able fists.

We are the flowers that make up the Creator's vast and beautiful garden.

Let__ escape outside,_ Isabelle suggested. __o you have any other talents?___ bake and garden.___o you sew, too?__mber nodded. __ sew whenever anger incites me to mutilation.__sabelle laughed. __ne cannot hang for attacking a piece of cloth.

Shigemori's body of work is a compelling manifesto for continuous cultural renewal.

Within my heart a garden grows,wild with violets and fragrant rose.Bright daffodils line the narrow path,my footsteps silent as I pass.Sweet tulips nod their heads in rest;I kneel in prayer to seek God's best.For round my garden a fence stands firmto guard my heart so I can learnwho should enter, and who should waiton the other side of my locked gate.I clasp the key around my neckand wonder if the time is yet.If I unlocked the gate today, would you come in? Or run away?

They were full of mysteries and secrets, like... like poems turned into landscapes.""'Poems turned into landscapes.'" he murmured with a slight smile. "And what of Vestenveld's gardens? Do you see poems in them?""Your gardens are like your country's poetry. Very frilly and organized.

But the seawhich no one tendsis also a garden