This morning I woke from a dream, that in typical fashion, depicted a combination of things I know, in places I don’t. Standing behind our house, which looked normal except for the addition of a porch, I wondered about the next door neighbor’s home. In this fantasy, it was for sale. His dwelling too, looked the way it is in real life, white with green gingerbread shingles, perched on ledge, surrounded by wilting hemlocks. As I slept though, both of our properties changed considerably, however, in the distance a garden from real life appeared. The combination of actual and imaginary conjured up a stunning image, so I thought I’d try to describe it. You’ll find the authentic garden in a photo at the bottom.
A white columned porch gazes across the green styled lawn to bulging rhododendrons weighted in purple, open-mouth blossoms--pillowing like wads of colored cotton. At the edge, the land humps down a reckless slope, rocks and roots and furrows tripping to a lake, resting long and black and still below.
At the far shore, a terraced garden climbs giant steps, cypress and ewes shaped with master shears--formal shrubs carved like shaved poodle legs, bottle brush greenery bristling under a painted pagoda. Overhead, uncombed pines circle tight as they lean on jutted hips, fold their arms and stand guard.