I haven't even packed for my next trip but I am already longing to be back home in my garden.
Sipping lemonade. Clipping roses.
Dreaming of dragonflies. Wondering what adventurous lives they might live.
Breathing in deeply the heady scent of English roses.
Remembering where I bought each one. Who was with me and the dreams we shared.
Revelling in the diversity as plants ebb and flow in their seasonal glory.
Smiling at the surprise combinations. I never thought of combining the blue blooming plumbago with the yellow shrimp accent. The plumbago is a monster. It cannot be allowed to take over this spot. It's like a summer love between a good girl and the handsome bad boy. It should last long enough to take a picture and then it must end.
Sometimes the garden gets ahead of me. I have learned to say a prayer in thanks,
For nature will reward me with new guests. Like yellow butterflies. They make up for the other surprises like overgrown scorpions and rollicking rodents.
There are few formal areas in my garden. The wildness of it suits me.
The surprise of a tossed cutting making itself comfortable as curls over the edge... a little aster popping up through it...3 cheers for the underdog. Its an American tradition to thrive whatever the circumstance.
My husband's do is the one really in charge here.
My little Reno happy to spend her life looking like a used Swiffer duster.
After a day in the garden, I am tired. But I will never tire of this place where the skies light up like in Gone with the Wind.
Before you go, take a moment to hear Simon and Garfunkel sing Homeward Bound.