Peeking out the window I see a maple tree dressed in burgundy and alexandrite green leaves gently bobbing back-and-forth in the wind.

I see the world through a row of horizontal blinds that outfit the window like a sunglass frame once worn in a popular music video.

Fully formed red wine saturated leaves are contrasted against a mint green garage turned shed facing a dirt road with a gravel path that sounds like the roads  almost a century ago, minus the planes and sirens that can be heard on occasion.

Inside my widow I see a miniature paper replica of a Japanese maple tree, with finger like leaves is in the foreground  juxtaposed against the inside glass window trying to peek through the background of a carefully curated garden with brown mulch weathered by the sun.

It makes me even more anxious to break through the fourth stage, a willing suspension of disbelief, and go outside to pour the black mulch between the green plants blowing in the breeze as well as in between the now dry azaleas trying to mimic the richness of the black soil that it can create.

I’m convinced gardening is a mirror of our minds wild and free, a little struggle goes a long way indeed.

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