I can feel summer aging. It seems to have only just arrived, but signs of it's passing are apparent. Crickets chirp, the evenings are growing shorter, black eyed Susan and Queen Ann's Lace bloom along the roads. The birds are no longer singing their mating songs. Tall grasses are tasseled with seeds.
But my gardens are filled with the blossoms of things I planted this spring, tucking each seedling in with a dose of hope.
Portulaca, which I plant in honor of my mother-in-law, Vernice, because she loved it.
The Cosmo's, which remind me of my sister, Dicy, who used to have riots of them in the gardens of her home.
Giant dahlias which were sent to me in error when I ordered a pink pussy willow.
Brilliant gladiolas.
Happy zinnias, each bloom lasting for ages.
Cone flowers.
Buckets of petunia's, which my Grampy Nim loved.
I appreciate them all. But what really shines? The flowers planted by the wild birds.
They outshine my efforts. Even their placement is perfect. The birds are marvelous at planting.
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