A great, mechanical grunting disturbs the tranquil peace of the garden. The insects cannot see the cause, dismiss it, and go back to pollination. The plants can smell the air and know exactly what’s happening: The Gardener is cutting the grass in the front yard.
Still walking barefoot as she works, she pushes the lawnmower over the green, St. Augustine grass. She doesn’t cut it too short. That could kill it. She only cuts it short enough for it to be lush and green. It feels like an organic carpet beneath her feet. With every slice of the blades, a smell rises into her nostrils. It’s the smell of fresh-cut grass.
The wind carries the odor back into the garden. The plants recognize it instantly. The grass only releases this fragrance when it’s in distress. In the language of the plants, it’s screaming. The grass is in pain. The grass must suffer to fulfill the will of the Gardener. The plants of the garden offer no aid to the grass. The cornstalk is only thankful that it’s not the victim. The orchids focus on forced sex. The dandelions try not to talk about it with the bees. The eucalyptus tree imagines what the screaming would smell like if the grass were on fire.
The Gardener thinks of her eucalyptus tree as she cuts her grass. She knows the eucalyptus are notorious for starting fires, yet she also knows she can control it. She is the Gardener. The tree may be old, but it will never match her wisdom. In time, it may burn her garden, perhaps even her house. She may even let that happen, at a time of her choosing, when it pleases her. Flames can be as beautiful as any flower. The Gardener knows that time is coming soon.
Not today, but soon.