Picture by Mr. French
My garden has had to fend for itself this year, and it has done it quite well. The phloxes have self-seeded and astonishingly the babies are not washed-out lavender in flower but the same harsh pink which wars with everything else in that bed. The lilies "Casablanca" have won over the lily beetles all on their own, have risen from what-I-thought-was-dead, and have, once again, opened those white chalices of pure sexuality, while resting them, tipsily, on the nearby branches of roses and peonies, causing me to almost faint when I go down the porch steps. The perfume! It should be made illegal by all those who hate sex. The ivy covers competently what used to be a wheelbarrow, I think, and even the weeds look healthy.
But as usual the daylilies have collapsed after flowering, their leaves decorating the ground like so many rusted swords. So goes the garden as does life: Ups and downs and unpredictable miracles or messes.
What I really wanted to write about was the Return of the Bees. They are back, bless their little furry pollen-smeared bottoms. I first noticed them on the sedums which look like pink broccoli right now. Then I saw them from the second floor windows on the Rudbeckia "Goldsturm" which reaches up to those windows. Lovely to see bees again. They are not back in force, but they are back.