What to do when the indispensable trowel gets lost together with the hand-held shears. One has lost one’s hands, fingers. One is doomed to not garden that day.
And why has this happened when the trowel and the secateurs are indeed one’s hands, the wrists inutile without them? God help one’s psyche. What ruin and havoc will be next?
There is a quite young magnolia which I planted last year near the south side of the winter house, which is, for the first time, in bloom and going on and on now for well over a month with buds as dark as hushing fingers to the lips and opening to full goblets of a pale, rather run-of-the-mill purple worn by penny-candy balls. It grows with the vitality of a sturdy bush or lowish tree and is branched to the base and already possesses a fine indication of future robust symmetry.