Come again another day…

There are always flowers for those who want to see them.

Henri Matisse

The grass is growing faster than we can stay ahead of it and the bugs are fierce but we made it through June without evolving into a new species of large amphibian so it’s all good, I say.  Besides, we have long memories when it comes to last winter and at least we aren’t having to shovel all of the rain we’ve had.

Besides, my planters have never looked better.   I admire real gardeners who have meticulously weeded gardens and who can tell a perennial from an annual without looking at the plastic tab thingies shoved into the flower pots at the greenhouse. As much as I enjoy having flowers in my life, I am not a very good plant mom, unfortunately. 

My day lilies and hostas thrive in spite of me, year after year.   And the marigolds and coleus in my planters seem pretty independent.  Every morning when I go outside, I can tell they’ve grown a little more and are filling in nicely.  I can take no credit for this.  All I did was buy the plants, dig a few holes and whisper “you’re on your own” before I planted the little suckers.

And then, it rained.  And rained.  And RAINED.

And now I have flowers everywhere. 

Not just the ones I’m neglecting, mind you.  I mean that I have flowers where I’ve never had flowers before. 

I have purple and yellow “volunteer” pansies blooming in the grass as well as daisies, Indian paintbrush, and lupines in bloom.  There are mounds of some type of wild phlox the color of raspberries and a delicate five petaled bright yellow flowering bush that I’ve never seen before. There is pink clover in the ditch and purple crown vetch creeping down the side of the driveway.

My yard is a messy, gaudy, bright swampy mess this summer.  It will never make the cover of a magazine and that’s just fine with me.

Because beauty really is in the eye of the beholder.  And perfection?  Completely overrated.



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