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About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write.
Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground.
![Joy Sweeps [#1514072]
Kiya's gift. I love it!](/main/trans.gif)
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Daily Cascade #1108795 added February 19, 2026 at 12:46pm Restrictions: None
Once Upon a Time, a Garden...
Prompt:
Write about your dream garden for your Blog entry today.
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I am not sure, today, if I can dream of a fancy garden with winding paths and what not, but once, I had a garden I still dream about.
I had it until I came down with severe and incurable plant and weed allergies, the worst being of ragweed that was totally incurable as the allergists claimed. The allergists also banned me from any garden work; therefore, soon after all that, we moved to Florida where, at the time, ragweed didn't exist.
Once upon a time, however, when we lived in LI, NY, in the back of the house was its two-acre yard. I still dream of that backyard, inside which were seven apple trees, plus a couple of pear trees. Then, I fenced an open space for a rose garden in which I put in 55 bushes. Why 55? It just happened that way. I wasn't planning it. Some days, in spring and summer, after all the yard work was done, I'd go sit in the middle of the rose garden and read.
Behind the rose garden on the same opening, I had fenced in another vegetable garden. My sons who were quite young, then, called it, "Mom's Victory Garden," after its bountiful produce, possibly because of a popular garden show on TV, at the time.
Around the house were many tall oak and maple trees and it was really shady there. So, I put a hammock in between two adjacent trees and that became my fall place for resting while I watched the colors of autumn everywhere.
Truth is, I don't know if this can be called a dream garden, but it was where I felt the happiest. The place was serene and the three sides of the backyard were separated from the neighbors' yards by thick bushes and trees.
I think a dream garden is not only about plants. It is about memory and hope and sanctuary. That type of a garden lives and breathes as if it is human.
The most famous gardens have grandeur, artistry, and vision. I am not sure if the ancient Hanging Gardens of Babylon truly existed or not, or if I would find the same serenity in a famous Japanese garden or even in Monet's garden, which I had found in my then backyard-garden.
To me, that not so fancy and not professionally cultivated garden of mine's memory still feels as if a dream I once had. It was where I lived the beauty without any concern for displaying it.
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© Copyright 2026 Joy (UN: joycag at Writing.Com). All rights reserved. Joy has granted InkSpot.Com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
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