Last year’s petunias…
I lie awake in the darkness of night and think how pretty a lavender petunia, ruffled and lacy, will look dangling over the side of a green pot.
A bit of lantana to bring in the butterflies, gold or yellow like last year. And maybe I’ll choose a new color for them to feast on.
A pot of lavender maybe? Though I have trouble keeping lavender alive in containers for some reason I haven’t figured out yet.
I think about honeysuckle, though I haven’t planted it in years. Still it lingers in my mind, the way it perfumed the air with its intoxicating scent.
I picture daisies. I must have daisies. I can almost see them upturned toward the sun, unfurling like an old map laid out on a table, the petals lined up for the sun to kiss.
I visualize myself at the nursery, my cart rolling along, a glorious carpet of color before me.
Though the temperature was in the low thirties last night I can already feel the excitement of choosing new blooms.
Last years daisies…
Do you get this carried away?
I didn’t always. More so since I’ve been alone, when life became a happy continuum of blissful unhurried days.
It is almost a romance, this fever-pitched longing. It is a gift I put in a lidded box every fall and look forward to opening again all winter long.
And when I do open it in a few short weeks, it will be a delight for the senses as the confetti of color fills my nursery cart.
I will enjoy tucking the plants into their new home, much as you would tuck in a child at bedtime.
Then I can begin the daily tending of my garden. Hovering over each new plant to make sure it is settling in nicely on my patio.