Tired

I'd been hoping to "make-over" that lower terrace this summer.  I reworked one bed a couple of months ago, digging and amending the soil and transplanting daylilies, hostas, and parsley. The rest of the lower terrace garden has languished, a sad assortment of shasta daisies, a knock-out rose, and lots of weeds. Back in May, I added an astilbe and a hydrangea in the shady corner, but the path was an uneven and the whole thing was weedy mess crying out for attention and restoration.

Today was the day.  I dug, moved rocks, hauled topsoil, chopped and added leaves to the beds, smoothed the path, laid down landscape fabric on the path and spread cypress mulch on it.  I lined the beds with the afore mentioned rocks (which are really chunks of concrete that we scavenged years ago), and planted and transplanted ... another hydrangea, several hostas, some impatiens, ferns, ajuga, and a lone coral bell that had gotten squeezed out by a vigorously growing hosta in bed in front of the house.

Today's work is done now and the sprinklers are running, watering in the new plants.  I am bone weary, arm hanging limp tired.  I may not be able to move in the morning.  But I like this kind of job-done-weary ... and it is a beautiful night.  The cicadas are humming and I expect I'll hear an owl or two in a little while.  Lightning bugs are twinkling here and there and the full moon will be up in a little while.

I am grateful.  So very grateful ... for arms to lift and haul, rake and dig; for legs that carry me back and forth, uphill and down; for good tools; for a well that has never run dry; for the white hydrangea and phlox blossoms that shimmer in a moonlit garden.