for my flowers. My beautiful, brave petunias. They called them tidal waves at the greenhouse. This is one plant. One amazing tidal wave of pink that made me happy all summer as it clamored over the barberry and way out of its assigned spot.
Gabe made these terraced steps a few years ago. They still amaze me, especially with trails of blooms on them. But tonight I pulled most of the flowers out. I can’t bear to see the petals blackened and ugly after frost, so I pulled them and disposed of them.
The boys chopped off the tough stems of our zinnia row in the garden, now that the butterflies are gone. I dug my calla lily bulbs and uprooted the blue salvia. All the herbs are spent and scrawny. There is only one doughty dahlia and a couple of confused lavendars still putting out fresh blooms.
I don’t like the bottom end of fall. It is so melancholy. I want to go to sleep too, or at least live with minimal effort, just kind of sipping tea and being quiet. Instead, the approaching winter requires me to dig down deep and put out fresh shoots of creativity to keep my little household happy. It requires more than usual patience and diligence in weed pulling or nasty habits and attitudes choke us altogether.
Maybe if I think of the challenges of a [mostly] housebound winter as another sort of gardening, it will be easier. Through faith and patience we inherit the promises! (But I still feel sad about my flowers.)