Can’t see the flowers for the hay? Breathe

I consider myself an observant person. It’s a hazard of the profession, and my nature, that I’m perennially taking a close look at things, nose down — perhaps not as aggressively as the dogs — getting a load of the little details of the gardens in my yard and on our morning walk.

This year, it’s been tough — really tough — to suss out the loveliness emerging from the home beds. I should stipulate that my lot is basically a crop circle cut out open space encroaching from two sides, and that I am 100 percent grateful for the soaking rains that have made up for the pathetic winter snowfall. But holy cow, the hay that has sprouted as the result of my pollinator-friendly cultivation practices is out of control — so much so that if my town allowed it, I would adopt an actual cow to help with the mowing.

Pleased as I am that tree peonies gifted to me by a friend now have survived into a second season, there’s a solid chance that even if I am able to yank all of the tall grass surrounding them, it will surge back and hide the magenta blossoms from everyone’s sight. I know that the iris pilfered from a garden that was about to be plowed under three springs ago have finally gotten their footings and should be delivering some lovely color, but will I see it? That depends on my ability to control the hay.

In the experimental garden, the feral calendula and arugula are holding their own. Same for the potatoes. Still, the garlic and shallots planted last fall are barely discernible from the wheat that has managed to propagate and push its way up from where chopped stalks were buried — a foot deep! — to compost with the help of worms. But then I remember the scent map the garden provides, the fragrant cues released as I brush the emerging leaves of lavender and lemon balm and kitchen smells that release as I yank my way down still untilled rows. The garden is there, I just have to work for it.