Summer’s waning. Cool nights. The light is intense, but lower. On the terraces, the play of plant edges with steel and rock begins to become satisfying. The garden develops its own rhythms. Spaces evolve. Sure, there’s the design and the vision to establish those spaces at the outset, but the processes happening now are poems and verses that happen of their own accord and I just happen to encounter them while moving through the landscape. There’s a Utah Phillips song I think about where he talks about a man who does not write poems – he finds them. That’s an inspiring meditation…
