Sit in a garden and write. What do you hear, smell, see? What’s crawling on the earth? Observe the sunlight on the plants. Feel their leaves.
“. . . I have salvaged dead wood from the grove of trees behind the flower bed, have made a crude bench from this. I sit there and I look at the cascade of Sweet Briar Rose, at the brush of lavender, and I try to imagine the Saffron crocus growing between them.
“I have cleared the tangle of trees above the flower bed so that now the sun moves over the garden. I can see where it falls, what it touches. There are blackbirds calling from the woods.”
from The Lost Garden, by Helen Humphreys
