This summer season I had my flower gardens planted before Memorial Day. And this morning I redid some of them.
Removed the blue and pink wildflowers (which weren’t supposed to be here in the first place) and the jumbo yellowish marigolds (which were supposed to be white). I really didn’t care for either, and they were hogging the space. The errant daisies that tried to hide in the lilies came out as well.
Then I moved various geraniums and petunias to the vacated real estate and took the crimson suns from their pot bound locations to revel in additional space. The dusty miller, which originally had been rooming with the zinnias, was moved too.
I don’t know how the plants felt, but I was happier. My theme for annuals this year was mostly red and white, but it ran astray early on. I tried to live with the idea that each plant had its own beauty and I should just enjoy having the garden bloom so well.
I tried. I couldn’t.
Which meant I was less inclined to spend time weeding, watering, and deadheading. Less inclined to sit on the patio in the evening and enjoy the fruits of my labor because the fruits were the wrong color.
This afternoon I checked on the transplants and they all seemed happier in their new spots. Not one drooped. The pot bound plants seemed especially grateful. I believe they actually smiled at me. And I plan to sit on the patio this evening and commune with them.
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