Catholic Churches in New York seem to have attempts at gardens, often. Gardens as opposed to "landscaping". Episcopal churches hire help. Catholic churches have a funny little person who loves plants. And Mary must always have flowers. I can't help liking that, even though me and the Pope...? Oy, don't get me started.
And they have a particular and peculiar, guilless, slightly inept aesthetic. I can't help thinking of the innocent, mannered and yet readable memoirs of Lady Fortescue: Perfume from Provence and Sunset House. In them she bemoans her southern French, Latin gardener, Hilaire's, lack of colour-sense. He planted riots. In rows. She wanted English borders. She recoiled.
Well, here's a riot, and I like it. I have never seen the gardener, though I imagine a wizened Nonna or frail and frustrated priest, wracked by celibacy, or at least by having to maintain its appearance...
There is fruit, too. A peach, grapes, raspberries, an old apple. All bear. And this on the corner of Lexington and E65th.