If, back home, the place suffered some storms whilst we were gone, the garden out back held no proof. What was impossibly clear was that we'd had an abundance of rain. Everyone seemed happy. The pile of dead russian thistles (when russia modifies a thistle, it merits no upper case privilege) was there to remind of the hours I've already spent weeding, or I could well have deduced I hadn't been out there at all. Everything was booming.
Not blooming, however. The prairie is dense as a jungle, but right now there's not a hint of color. It'll be a while yet, maybe two weeks before the place gushes.
But the chorus of garden flowers are up and about and making music, all in their good time.
Daisies are cheap thrills, I know, but when they're all turned out they're still an abundant blessings.
Coneflowers are starting to come. Soon enough they'll all be out, making the property a proper prairie. Don't let 'em fool you. They look far more fragile than they are, drooping petals and all. For the most part, they grit their teeth through almost all prairie winds.
Coneflowers are just supposed to be here, like the big blue stem. What you got is really not a prairie without 'em. Hearty?--shoot yes. They've almost completely taken over a front yard bed, big muscular things with buds that'll soon be announcing themselves, shouting to the world.
We've got some little exotics too, here and there a fourth of July of bright color that would be out of place if they weren't so embarrassingly showy.
The truth? I was out in the backyard toting a camera last night at dusk because I was hoping that all the color would somehow help me put the weekend, well, behind me. Let me tell you, we left some irreplaceable blossoms behind.
Meanwhile, I got no choice. What's coming up out back will just have to do.
And SKYPE.
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