In the summer, the palm leaves reign. Lanky and lush, their branches spread out wide and cast shadows that dance seductively as the sun sets. In the gaps where sunlight peeks through, are vines and flowers. An amalgam of color and texture and shape and size — enticing and enchanting and beautiful.
The garden's cats weave throughout the roots of the trees — barely there — often a quick flash of tail or claw or yellow eye. In the early morning, the squirrels spruce up their homes while sleepily chattering amongst themselves.
Even in the winter, as the garden's blooms begin to wilt and its palm trees shrivel, beauty remains. You catch glimpses of it on November mornings before anyone is awake when it's just you and the birds and the earth and the cold. And you silently thank God, the steam from your breath the only sign you were ever there.