Look who showed up today, hiding in one of my photographs.
He’s been busy, inviting his friends to enjoy my fantastic wildflower garden:
Poppies are a special hit
But daisies are acceptable as well:
Poppy petals reminded me of a flared skirt
There’s something very appealing about this sort of skirt, a freedom you never got in a straight one.
Once, in my dim distant youth I wore such a skirt and danced joyfully around in it, lifting my arms, kicking my legs: freedom of expression.
Truth is, I was probably a little “tight”.
If you know what I mean:)
So proud of my token zinnia:
In full bloom at last.
In my ever-surprising wildflower bed, an aster suddenly appeared. What a beauty.
It reminds me of Chinese porcelain.
Because they use it often in their decoration?
In my wildest dreams, I would never hope to be a gardener, like my mother. But I have developed a love for the plants that grace me by their presence.
My mother loved to enjoy the blooms, as do I, but I love to watch the buds, the early hint of colour, the little “furry” bits (I’ll be cuddling flowers next) and all the different shapes of the flowers and the leaves.
While a manicured garden may be perfection, I love the freedom of my flowers that grow just where they choose.
“Freedom”…I’ve written it again…
It’s something to be cherished.
Too often we do not know this until it is lost.