This is the time of year when I dream of a well-composed yard, where all the shapes and textures come together in a sublime vegetal symphony (azaleas on drums). The human eye yearns for an Edenic landscape that is neither truly wild nor obviously manipulated. The manicured yard seems sterile and heartless. I prefer a more natural look, even though it means that my neighbors will stand there and say, after an uncomfortable pause, "So you've decided to just let it go."

My yard is, sadly, too small to include a pasture, meadow, or heath. I've always wanted a yard that was big enough for some moors. Even one moor. I've had terrible luck growing heather. But my bracken is thriving.

True fact: The most pleasing part of the yard is the garage. It's old and made of brick and is nicely camped amid flower beds along the back alley. You could almost imagine that it grew there, sprouting years ago from a single brick. People are always telling me how I could fix up the garage, and convert it to something more upscale, like a guest house, or a conservatory, or a health spa, or an astronomical observatory capable of staging midnight laser-light shows. I just want it to be what it is, which is a garage that has been converted to a grotto, a mancave, an overblown shed. It's got darts, weights, sometimes a little TV. The mower and the fertilizer spreader. Tools. Random boards and ladders and sheets of plywood. Mysterious canisters and jars. Plenty of housing for spiders and other vermin. What's to "fix up"?

I planted tomatoes this weekend. It's too early. They are pitifully small and will remain so until June. It doesn't matter when you plant tomatoes, they will refuse to grow until June, at which point they will go berserk and get so big so fast they will sometimes reach out and devour small dogs. This year I planted a type of heirloom tomato called Vacationer, which only bears fruit when the owner is away on vacation.

This is a time when the yard can be made to look well tended, even though it contains the seeds of weedy chaos and madness. The vines are getting ready to pounce. If you hear me whistling in my yard it is because the weeds make me nervous. They can be so stealthy in May, coiled to strike. Yeah, there's music in my personal landscape -- and it's too much like the scary parts of Peter and the Wolf.

By Joel Achenbach  |  May 8, 2006; 3:06 PM ET
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