The accidental gardener does not sow. She drops, she throws.
Seeds taken from the seed drawer, behind watchful eyes. She knows they can grow, yet the peculiar shapes and colours intrigue her more so.
The seeds scattered on the floor, drift where the wind blows. This time, the pumpkin falls off the kerb, and grows.
Fed by greywater from the nearby washer, it sprawls. Onto pathways, encroaching vegetable beds; the big hairy leaves roam unhindered. The green sprawl, thought to be an unproductive obstacle, uprooted and cleared one day. A surprise gift, there it lay.
Another time, the jack beans left carelessly by the sand pit. Come rain and shine, and sprout they did.
The accidental gardener is a master of using edges. Plant where the grass meets sand, or soil meets ledge. But yet, the accidental gardener does without knowing, without trying.
She gardens like how the boar tills, the monkey seeds, the elephant tramples, the cow mows, the caterpillar prunes, the bee pollinates. With every breath, she adds plant biomass. When nature calls, she fertilizes, giving her all.
And unlike even the most seasoned of gardeners, she is never disappointed, always happy with what little she gets. Her secret? Never expect.
The greatest obstacle to living is expectancy, which hangs upon tomorrow and loses today. – Seneca
Do. Or do not. There is no try. – Yoda