In a garden there are manners.

The Magnolia growing up the side of the chimney watches over the Oak Leaf Hyrdrangeas, which allow a Knockout Rose bush to nestle up close under its giant leaves, like umbrellas against the hot Virginia sun.

Around the corner the last of the summer’s Hydrangea blooms ignore the goings on to the East, happy to keep watch over the patio, where wasps nest against the pillars.

A branch of roses low to the lawn and struggling to see, pushes its way forward as if to say, “What’s happening? What’s going on? What did I miss?…as I once did in New York City when the Presidential motorcade had just roared by.

To the West a lone lilac concoles Farmer Marsden’s apple trees, their branches choked with Poison Ivy, their fallen fruit Fall’s feast for birds.

To the South a sea of Roses watches a field of cornstalks make their way toward the sun. The Roses say, “We are fuchsia, while you are merely green and will soon be mown down. The Mistress Lady would never mow us down.”

Nestled into a corner, between the Writing Room and the Bedroom is a conifer shrub, which begs me to free it of a weed taken root in its core.

Tomorrow morning, my friend. I promise.

For in a garden there are manners.