Is it a matter of omission, the simple act of not mowing? Or is there something else involved, some sowing of seeds? I’m wondering about meadows and what makes the one I visit so kind on the eyes.

It is not the regularity of the plantings. There are no rows of tulips, no artful arranging of azalea and dogwood. No, it’s the very randomness that appeals to me, I think. The buttercups, the chicory, the tall grasses gone to seed, the flat blades and thin blades, even the occasional cat tail — all mixed up together. Like a bouquet of wildflowers that draws its beauty not from any one blossom but from all of them mixed together.