pruning

My garden is a beastly thing in Spring. The roses, especially, transform into stretch-armed monsters that terrorize small children on their way to preschool(sorry about that, Ashli). I’ve always been more of an English gardener than a French one– graceful natural beds intrigue me more than orderly rows of annuals– but even chaos needs some order.

Pruning roses is my job. They are my loves, my pretties; I call them by name and I know the cuts that ensure a green strong bush and the brightest blooms. It pains me to sever those long branches already leaved out and fighting for buds. But the bushes will grow weak and subject to disease without pruning; as will I.

Thorns gouge my arms into a grid of red welts, one catches me on the forehead and leaves a garish bloody stream into my hairline.

Mary breaks my musings with a rake in hand and chickens at her feet (they stunk themselves out of my bathroom and are living in a grapefruit box in the garage). Alternating between strains and giggles she clears the center and chats a cheerful stream of nothing. Xander and Stefan toss silly puns back and forth as they assist with the hateful job of chopping the branches and stuffing them in the garbage can

Soon it’s a party– 13 boys bouncing and rolling in my backyard; admiring the chickens and soaking in Spring sunshine.