The morning dew sleeps gently on the pedals of a flower. The sun shines drops of light against the surface of a rose. The wind glides past new spring blossoms clutching their scent in it's arms. An airy mist descends upon the leaves of the shrubs and trees. Echoes chirp from the gardens depths while birds float by. Beneath the stream a pond rests receiving trickling water as though it were life's breath. On the peak of the hill a swing chair rests overlooking the serenity of a dream to reality that hands have blessed.
My grandmother real has one of the most beautiful gardens I've ever seen. Of course I much prefer looking at it than weeding.