As they have done for the past decade or more, the camellias in our garden had a nice run this spring.
And the climbing hydrangea, which has a chronic mealy bug infestation, has more blooms than it has in many years.
But there’s something restrained or even tentative about the garden this year, maybe even ‘tired.’ Or is it that I’m tired?
Like me, the garden isn’t sick, but it’s not young, either. If at times it seems more elegant, it’s also less exuberant.
The trees are mature. Just as we intended, they are blocking the neighboring apartment buildings.
There is still tender new growth in the understory.
And some (but not all) of the ferns are very happy.
Somehow the golden-tipped yew, which Stephen and I bought in a small pot over twenty years ago, has become the standout plant.
But as I look as the garden, I have the same question I do as when I ponder my life, namely: what’s next?
