The Garden Has Begun to Change Its Mind

A quick note from the cottage porch: This journal entry contains affiliate links. As an Amazon Associate I earn from qualifying purchases. If you use these links to gather your supplies from Amazon or Walmart, a small commission floats back to the cottage to keep the kettle boiling, at no extra cost to you.

I went out early this morning to retrieve a basket.

That was the entire plan.

The grass was still wet enough to darken my boots, though the sky had already begun promising warmth. It felt like one of those mornings with two seasons tucked inside it: cool dew at the ankles and sunlight gathering overhead.

The basket was beside the garden bed where I had left it, containing a coil of garden twine and one clothespin.

I do not know why the clothespin was there.

It offered no explanation.

Smokey followed me along the path, stepping carefully around the wettest patches with the grave concentration of someone crossing a dangerous marsh rather than a small garden before breakfast.

I picked up the basket and meant to go back inside.

Then the dill rattled.

The seed heads had dried almost without my noticing. When I curled my fingers around one, it made a small papery sound in my hand. Not quite music. More like the garden clearing its throat.

The nasturtiums were still bright nearby, but beneath the flowers their seed pods had begun to swell.

That seemed almost suspicious.

Everything above them was still carrying on as usual, all orange petals and green leaves, while underneath, the plant had quietly started making arrangements for another year.

Smokey turns away from a wet leaf with offended ears and heads toward the cottage while Maeve gathers seeds in the garden behind him.

I stood there longer than necessary.

Then I took the basket inside and returned with three paper envelopes.

This was not a formal project. Formal projects generally involve preparation, and possibly a table.

I simply collected what the garden had made difficult to ignore.

The first envelope became DILL.

The second became NASTURTIUM.

The third took longer.

I examined the seeds. I examined the plant. I tried to remember several useful things at once.

Eventually, I wrote PROBABLY CALENDULA.

It seemed best not to begin our future acquaintance with false confidence.

Smokey remained nearby until a wet leaf brushed against his side.

Three hand-labeled seed envelopes sit with dill heads, nasturtium pods, twine, and a clothespin on a sunlit cottage table.

He looked at the leaf.

He looked at me.

Then he abandoned the operation completely and returned to the cottage with the stiff, offended walk of a cat who has discovered that nature contains moisture.

By then, the sun had reached the garden properly. My boots were still dark with dew, but warmth had begun settling over the leaves.

I carried the three uneven envelopes inside with the basket, the twine, and the unexplained clothespin.

The flowers are not finished yet.

The garden is simply thinking ahead.

Quietly.

And apparently in envelopes.