Archard POV
In the back of my garden, there is a quaint gazebo, shaded by the lush greenery of Virginia creeper, climbing roses, and a towering white pine. I often sit there in the early morning, basking in the tranquility and watching the world come alive. The light blue bells of a dwarf campanula sway gently in the breeze, drifting over the rock garden just before my eyes. Behind it, a three-foot stand of aconite is in full bloom, each dark blue cowl-like corolla bowed in reverence or perhaps secrecy: thus its common name, monkshood. Next to the aconite, the seductive Easter scent of black madonna lilies wafts through the air as they begin to bloom. At the back of the garden, a hollow log that once served as a base for splitting kindling now spills forth a cascade of white petunias and
