It’s nearly finished; this little masterpiece I’ve been working on. It will take some upkeep, but then, all beautiful things do. It’s a draped painting; a veiled sculpture. It’s untouched as of yet; cloaked in the cold of springtime snow and missing husbands.
Unlike Weggly, who has a mere sparse row of spindly willows with which to contend, I’m dark-haired and tanned. Well, where I’m natural, I’m dark-haired. While she’s palm trees standing vigil on a beach, I’m hedge rows in England guarding a private lane. Both beautiful, in their own secret way. But for reasons that shall remain my own (good God, aren’t they obvious?) I’ve embarked on this springtime project of mine. It’s taken more time than I anticipated.
Laying the tool of the trade to such a delicate... garden is a nearly blind leap of faith. It can’t be too sharp, lest the dirt beneath the lawn is damaged. Everyone knows it’s the soil that’s the most important part of any garden. This top soil is fragile. It’s not seen the unfiltered light of day for many years. But if the blade isn’t sharp enough, it does another sort of damage all its own. More to the psyche than to the skin; because this enterprise requires three things: time (the most precious of commodities, of course), courage, and complete, utter silence. If any are spent needlessly, then the endeavor has been for naught.
So it’s not like I took out gas powered shears and just started hacking away at it. Besides the fragile ecosystem, there was the landscape itself to consider; the natural hills and the valley... oh yes, the Valley. The Valley must be protected at all costs. The Valley is a sacred place; a place to tread lightly. When entering the Valley, you must keep a keen sense of the importance of your journey and your wits about you.
Like the Valley of the Kings in Egypt, you can loot it all you want. But one fact remains: more souls are accessed there than at any place on earth.