Just this morning my coffee cup and I wandered out in the first light, across the tall grass, the mower being broken again. I found lively growth on a recently relocated jasmine, some early lavender blooms– and millions of roses, everywhere.
I said to nobody, “Where did all these roses suddenly come from?”
Someone said, “Don’t be stupid.”
I knew it wasn’t Tillie. She is on vacation with her louche Gentleman Caller, an indiscreet plan at best and one I really don’t want to discuss today, maybe later…
No it was the dryad, leaning up against her oak tree in the sun.
She is often, but not always, rude. I blinked and then she was up high, on a limb, after which the wind caught the leaves or she laughed.
“What exactly is your provenance?” I called up at her. (She might not like being talked about like a piece of pottery.)
“What is yours?” she said. Her voice carried without shouting which wasn’t fair.
I drank coffee and looked carelessly at the pillar roses and when I finally glanced back she was gone. It’s always like that with her, no chance for considered comebacks. But she tends the tree so I let her stay. Well that and I don’t know how to get rid of her. (The rocks come with the farm.)
There truly are lots of rose blooms, and still some wildflowers–like the leopard lily, which I moved to the George-the-Cat Memorial Garden just last year. (George would have liked the “Leopard” part.)
This spring I bought a couple pots of the perennial Dianthus “Coconut Punch.”
They are said to be spicy-fragrant but ever since Mr O brought home that souvenir cold virus from his trip to San Diego I haven’t been able to sense any flower fragrances at all, a horrific hindrance during rose time. Dr Google says it is temporary damage from the virus, or possibly the beginning of one of several deadly illnesses including a brain tumor. (I expect it will pass by about October when all the flowers are gone.)
So anyway I don’t know if the new dianthus is spicy or not. (I’ve tried testing the flowers on Mr O but he is notoriously fragrance-insensitive at the best of times and of course he had the evil cold too.) The coconut punchy dianthus is a compact little plant, about a foot tall. The color is white and burgundy –although you may come across some prevarication about the flowers being black.
Now here is a long view of the gardens east of my house this morning.
In the foreground is a little boxwood hedge made of plants of various ages. I do clip them but so far I am trying to make them look like a hedge and not a duck or undulating ribbon or anything figural. At the end of the little dark hedge, at the right, is a baby oak tree. Mr O says I planted it too close to the house but I told him I would not live long enough to see the problem even if I don’t have a brain tumor because oaks grow so slowly and anyway the dryad made me do it–something about a homeless relative.
Beyond the box plants in this image is the new pine tree bed, which my shovel and I periodically increase in size. It’s a round bed at the feet of a couple pine trees and the deadly toxic yew tree. You will note that the “lawn” is rather tall but the next international croquet tournament isn’t scheduled until July and hopefully by then the mower belt will be replaced.
The next image is the picket fence. It is along the right side, behind all that jungle of shrubs and trees. (Yes I know it’s entirely hidden that’s why I told you.)
And I expect you have for some time wondered if I ever painted the wheelbarrow. I did, and really it works a lot better now.
A few more of the inexplicable roses:
I’m reading fiction by John Crowley right now, a tetralogy called Ægypt, and it doesn’t bring my feet any closer to the ground.
In an online essay, Crowley quoted Isaac Bashevis Singer: “The things we know we call nature and what we don’t know we call supernatural.”