The Five-Minute Garden Round

Near the end of the day, I take a shallow bowl and walk once around the garden before going inside.

It is not a harvest.

A harvest requires baskets and plans and some idea of what one intends to do with six pounds of tomatoes.

This is only a round.

Carry the bowl.

Pick what is ready.

Snip one useful handful of herbs.

Remove one tired thing.

Notice one thing that changed.

Leave the rest of the garden alone.

Tonight, I found two tomatoes warm from the last of the light, a handful of herbs, and one bean hiding beneath a leaf as though it had made other arrangements.

Then I discovered the zucchini.

I looked at it.

It looked unnecessarily large.

I am certain it was much smaller yesterday, although the zucchini and I appear to remember yesterday differently.

Into the bowl it went.

I removed one flower that had finished, then tipped a dry seed head into a small paper envelope for later. By then, the insects had become loud enough to make the whole garden feel busy without me.

So I stood still and listened.

Five minutes became eight.

Nobody filed a complaint.

There were stems that could have been tied and leaves that could have been checked. I could have found another task quite easily.

I did not.

I carried the bowl inside and left the garden to its evening.

Bring in what is ready. Let the rest keep becoming.