After the air kisses and promises to do this more often, I left and wrapped myself around the biggest hamburger I could find.  Satiated, I decided to stop by the arboretum.  If anything, maybe I could drop off the image of gardening there and get on with the job of mundane daily thinking.

            I always marvel at the people who come to places like this to be seen, all the while pretending no one could possibly be watching.  The painter, set up with the “no one will notice my seven foot easel.”   Pretentious.  The out of work poets were out, sitting under every single magnolia tree, too pompous to get a job or bother to write anything of minute importance.  And my personal favorite, the photographers.  My personal favorite was laying down for a shot at premature lilies.  Quintessential.  He looked as if he raided the “starving artists wardrobe” guide before going out.  He was sporting the wool cap, tee shirt and mismatching flannel shirt on top combo, with which he will obviously have a thrift store story of how much he paid, and the over washed jeans with strategically placed holes.  I guess with thoughts of gardening, one must pass by a few tools. 

            The day was flushed away the minute I walked into “The Woman’s Garden.”   A fountain encircled by hyacinths, lilacs, and a palate of colors the names of which would only cheapen the spectacle.  I sat on a bench, every sense separated from me, as would five friends dropping hands to explore.  Thoughts of gardening, my mother, my comforts and trivialities, all walked away with my five senses into a photograph of a poem of a painting, the heights of sights, sounds and smells. 

            I was shocked from my bliss by the sound of a shutter.  I blinked, trying to find my bearings.  It was Captain Wool Cap.  “Sorry,” he said from behind his camera.  “Didn’t mean to startle you.  I just had to take your picture.”