A Tokyo garden. No garden at all. Thirty-seven pots. Not to everyone’s taste. Not exactly tasteful. Thirty-seven pots inches from the highway, tripping up passersby. Mixed pots. Sprigs of this growing in that. Succulents in the ivy. Bamboo grass in the tea roses. Impatiens, marigolds, cactuses. A dull jade tree. A prize winning miniature cherry chained to the curb. Hydrangea. Chives. A little, old lady, not sweet and not nice, everyday solemnly trimming and pruning, refusing to toss out what ought to be tossed out.
If it were all terracotta—
But no. Plastic pots, cruddy blue and white, forlorn white hooks. Who in their right mind would harbor a Christmas cactus--eleven months of the year a collapsed gray green. What else? Even as far as a ceramic gnome, maybe, sleeping it off in the dirt.
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