I thought these were the last of a very bountiful season. I brought them all in together and reveled in the excess of having them in one container.
But then there were more. I feared they would succumb to rain, dropping their petals like confetti; they did not.
“Doesn’t that sort of look like a woman with crazy hair?” “Um. Sure, Mom.”
And more still. The last two bunches a pleasant pay off for the watering and weed pulling. During a particularly long weed harvest (that started as a casual pluck, coffee cup still in my left hand) I couldn’t help but wonder, “Why don’t rabbits eat weeds?” Then gardening would be nearly perfect.