Right now my garden is almost the exclusive property of mysteries. You would think that, given my obsessive attention to detail in almost all other arenas, each pot would be meticulously labeled and separated into sections so that I would know just what to be expecting and when. But somehow in the early spring I tend to disregard the possibility of plants from last year making a return and instead scatter seeds without regard across all of the exposed dirt, figuring that by the time I am ready to visit the farmer's market for new things to grow everything there will either be coming up or else never to be seen.
And so now we are in the days of revelation, where all manner of things are becoming green and tall, appearing each day unexpectedly somewhere new. I don't have any idea what is going to pop out of any of them. Is it the sentimental blue coming back, the sweet peas returning to climb delicately over everything, or the four o'clocks rubbing their leaves together in anticipation of seducing my shouty little humming bird friend again? Will I be growing a growling monster with diamonds for eyes or a cluster of elephants hanging by their trunks? A rainbow or a pot of gold or the secret to eternal happiness?
Each evening, I water my mysteries. I'm sure that they'll be beautiful when they bloom, but just now I like them better this way.