The back yard is green. It’s hydrangea time. Yeah, they are leggy, pruning mistake. Lesson learned.
Leslie asked me how my white roses are doing. In truth I neglected them to deal with my mother’s Alzheimer’s-provoked move. The poor guys responded by sinking into a despair of black spot, rust, and unnamable blight.
But a couple of good sprayings with oil from Indian tree seeds and back they’ve come.
A little bitten, a little cock-eyed, but still roses and on the whole white.
You might also remember I had planted a butterfly garden. The plants are flourishing, the butterflies scarce to date but welcome.
By the way, it’s not called milkWEED for nothing. This stuff spreads. I like to call it an optimistic plant. But I’ve made a morning ritual of picking out the tiny sprouts. Keeping some space clear.
Now native sage, yarrow and mint surround my olive tree like girls in bright dresses around a gawky friend. Bokeh, you party crashers. Light is such a prankster.
That yarrow, by the way, was supposed to be white. Surprise! I prefer the rosy pink, in fact, and the sage’s creature-like habit adds a little bite to the sweet colors.
Elsewhere, some of the stuff in my garden, man, I have no idea what it even is. This stalk turns red eventually.
And the general unruliness. Some plants, privet, for example, grow where they are not wanted. Out of my fern, you wanton sprout!
Some plants, although invited, decide to take over. There will be thinning oh Japanese anemones, you have been warned.
Fortunately, some daises I transplanted brushed off neglect and decided to grow tall and spectacular. By themselves,
Or, in dappled context,
next to neighbors. Boisterous, lace-capped, pink-flowered neighbors. Lurking grasses, necessary menace.
Thanks, you plants, my friends. Just what I needed.
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