The garden’s whispers are loud, since we are family.

 

Leaves beside the pond explode in such growth like they are shot from a botanical canon. Mock the tiny pots of their scrawny youth. Lilliputians set free. Miriam gave them to me. Charles Atlas and Arnold Schwarzenegger you see.

 

Bruce’s nearby pump house has a fairy on top, looks down to the pond. Potted flower islands, flags, and twisted willow branches full of tiny lights like the stars surround our home up above. Wood siding knows natural roots, dresses up to look civilized.

 

Frank’s benevolent metal heron can't snack on the ponds golden hors d’oeuvres.

 

Ed’s obelisk fountain, lotus on top, calmly sprinkles a shower that says we’re just here for a while as he whispers to us from his faraway land.

 

Giant boulders hide under water as if they’re shy. Softened by moss, kin to muck and mud. They were a generous gift. Dave’s giant truck an earthquake. He gouged deep in dirt to push them in place with his Cat as we cheered from the steps.

 

Early on I was overwhelmed, didn't know what to do. I was cycling by, thought you might need some help, floated to me - asleep in my lounge, as I looked up to Rowan who then helped me a lot.

 

And Vic’s Thunderbird sits on a throne, keeps us all on task. We all do our part.