Don't they know this garden is an ode to Martha?
That every year when the leaves lose grip, I prune erratic. I seek your approval, Platero, because you‘ve seen Martha do it so often.
That hedge over there: sloppy and unevenly shaven; the bushes butterflies like to sit on, brusquely stripped of their thick branches - hopefully none vital.
That’s why this garden is an ode to Martha: because I’m lost without her and not just in the garden.