She had a vision Of living art Beautiful images To soften her heart
She desired an eden A place of peace A place where wonders Would never cease.
She made a plan And chose her plants Shades and shapes To compliment.
Every day out there she toiled, but her good intentions were mostly foiled.
She strove for The balance she desired. Against which all The plants conspired.
Daily they fought a war for space for mastery of the botanical race.
Battles for light And water ensued. The winners grew stronger. The losers withdrew.
As beds got warmer Hussies coloured and danced Looking for A fruitful romance.
The birds and the bees Joined in with the plot. And soon whole spaces Became nursery cots. The weeds being the most insidious lot.
She weeded. She pruned. She sowed by the moon. But no matter what she did They wouldn’t do as she bid.
Then one day she downed her tools. And left them to live by their own rules. Thinking them to be mere fools.
A few years later The gardener returned. And there was the garden For which she’d yearned.
"Peut-etre il ne faut pas cultiver notre jardin..."
- public document at doc.anagora.org/the-gardener
- video call at meet.jit.si/the-gardener