Forest Floor

The woods surrounding the cabin and property is a diverse display of fungi, native florida greens, lush trees of varying heights and ages, and composting browns. I have always loved the landscape of undeveloped Florida, but living so intently among it makes me appreciate so much more the magnolia trees stretching all across my yard, and the fallen oak leaves that create a swamp of a forest floor. I have seen the wildest species of fungi, ranging from bright oranges and red clinging to the edges of rain soaked logs, to spongy yellow and white ones coming off the sunniest point of the armadillo-proof garden, to white and

spiky small-capped fungi emiting snowy powder in the compost
garden. Growing anything that is not already established in the ground has been futile. I had 25 heirloom tomatoes in separate pots that were frozen over the intense cold of the new year, except for one which has now died from lack of sun. I have had celery, leeks, and green onions that produced for 2 weeks before withering. My intentional garden is now only plastic bins filled with drenched compost soil. The compost pile sprouts new greens every day from the bird seed we throw in it, and has begun imploding on itself from soil overnutrition. It is ten degrees cooler inside the bamboo gate, except for one sunny spot that grows nothing. My garden is now the entire forest, and I prune wild plumerias and water tiny grass shoots as if I planted them myself.