I used to think growing flowers was for pansies, so I'd raise some flowers with attitude, like flowering sage and five-foot high marigolds--both were supposed to keep the aphids off my beans and tmatoes. They did. They also grew so tall as to almost chase me back into the house....Probably the high trees around my balcony, causing these plants to reach for the sky. It is the middle of November and the flowers are not wilting from the frost, though I myself fear I am dying a little this autumn. The summer has made me soft; it is wind-whistling time in this stage of my life and crows and ravens are blowing riffs.
At a certain age, you are supposed to have it all together, have life figured out (at precisely the time you have to, uh, go).
But those flowers, those durable flowers. Everything else in my container garden is dead, but the flowers are up there every morning, frost or shine, stabbing up into the murky blue, themselves yellow and blue, like the colours of my old agrarian country. Small wonder Vincent van Gogh was smitten.
I think of an old love.
Perhaps she's a flower, a distant flower
That blooms along the wall of a house.
Faint heart never won fair lady, though I was not faint at all.
But love is blind. One step at a time.
I have exhausted all the steps of bravado and daring, and still she would not come.
Perhaps if I sent her a flower, the flower that I grew.