My small garden is mostly made of rock and dirt.
tom
Most other gardens contain a grotesque conglomeration of plants and flowers, choked with life, all clamouring to stay alive. Their ever demanding needs the bane of any gardener who slaves at their beck and call with no thanks, just for them to die after they have spewed forth their garish display of sexual depravity to attract swarms of chittering, creeping insects. A garden with plants is surely a marker of the deranged, trying to fool themselves with a few feet of flora that they don't reside crammed amongst the braying masses of their fellow species.
My garden is different and altogether more civilised. Though the judicious use of salt each year nary a green shoot thrusts itself unwanted from the ground. A fine soil takes up the majority of the plot, silent and calm. It provides the perfect substrate and backdrop to a collection of exquisite rocks which are elegantly placed in prime locations to be gazed upon from my windows. Each rock a solemn reminder of ones fleeting presence on this planet, a fractional iota of the existence of these noble stones.
I gaze at my creation and think not of it's demands but of my own humble insignificance.