|Ducky perched in last year's jungle|
|Oh honey, work it!|
The bees and I share a bit of an obsession with poppies. They are full of promise. A guarantee that with water, sun and soil they are endless, self-sufficient procreators, smiling their bit of sunshine for the curious to encounter. They shimmer iridescent and tempt a closer look, the ruffles of their petals swirling in the breeze. The stuff that dreams are made of. Early mornings - find us here.
|Always stop to smell the flowers|
|This baby is about to explode with wonder.|
|Frye in the Garlic|
|Walking Onions. Majestic|
It is always new and exciting to cultivate each year. I release a bit of control that comes with organization to the determined seeds of the year before. Poppies will inevitably find their way to any corner of the patch, marigolds run rampant, grinning in the middle of the path. Chamomile, dill and other surprises from years past poke their heads up in the darndest places. Walking onions become strange, alien like obstructions. I can't resist or condemn this persistence of life. Apologies to the morning glory, grass, and the thistle though. That's where I draw the line.