There is more beauty in nature than can ever be dreamt by a manicured lawn, to twist the words of Shakespeare. Before I moved to Canada’s most northern provincial capital, I took thinks like leaves for granted. Now I feel the urge to touch each one as I pass, grateful for their brief lives, knowing it won’t be long before we are parted. I’ve always had an affinity toward country gardens. The type that grow almost but not quite feral. There is something appealing about the variety and madness one can find there. I wish I could dive right in. The idea of growing things sounds so noble. In reality it is dirty and painful. It takes many hours of sweaty labour before one can stand back and admire. I have little interest in pruning and am too forgetful to weed. Though I love the thought of having a garden in which I can loll and read, I can read anywhere. I will finish more books if I let the plants do as they will. There is more beauty in nature than can ever be formed by my two hands. I do not pretend an artistic inclination. Why bother? The earth does a lovely job without my bungled help.