Haven't a clue who discovers such things, but I read somewhere that the petals of the purple cone flower do wonders on sunburn. Haven't tried it, but the idea has feel of authenticity and may well be one of those old wives' tales as worthy of attention as the old wives themselves.
True or false, coneflowers are greatly welcome in our garden, not simply because they set the place ablaze in a pinkish purple that's sweetly becoming, but also because they're home out here. Against a bed of grasses, when they bloom as they can and do, they do so with true native dignity because this is where they're supposed to be, where they belong, where the Creator, himself a fair-to-middlin' gardener, destined them a place.
Long ago I was told you can't expect native flowers to be as showy as their pampered greenhouse cousins. Take a walk in a meadow and you must needs define beauty in a whole different way, smiling at what seems something less than profusion. Getting more with less--that sort of thing, you know.
This confusing weather year--way too much water, a ton too much heat, and the whole growing season begun with an out-of-the-blue record freeze back in April--has nonetheless blessed our coneflowers, both the ordinary garden variety, as well as their more rural cousins, the pale purple ones out back. All around our place, they're doing better than well.
They're bee magnets, too. They rely on long-tongued bees, I'm told, to propagate. Bring on the bees, I say, the more coneflowers the merrier around here. Go ahead and burst forth in purple profusion. They're the joy that all that blasted weeding is about. Go ahead and shine, boys and girls.
Come on out and play. Come on out and do your own thing. Carpe diem.
This morning, consider the purple prairie cornflowers. They toil, neither do they spin; and I'm thankful for 'em, every last one, yours and mine.
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