Though most of the roses are in their second flush, and look very promising, I know that somewhere in their number lies the bittersweet last rose of summer. I should probably look upon it as a goodbye kiss, with the promise of return next year, but it always makes me inexpressibly sad.
My leisurely walks in the garden have come down to deadheading, clipping, pulling, hoeing and weeding and everything, including me, looks vaguely tired.
Here the Johnson's Blue geranium has lost its mind in blue abandon, there the Peter Pan Lily of the Nile
is expanding regally and quietly, and over there the gallardia looks like a nest of migrating snakes with sunset colored heads.
The Cerinthe major purpuascens finally reseeded in great number and all but seven have decided to live in the fissure between the landscape timber and the sidewalk. An unknown climber, installed temporarily into the nursery bed, has shot up like a rocket into the rhodedendron.
The previously laggy New Dawn, likewise in a temp home, has finally lived up to its reputation and is.. well.. everywhere.
The climbing IceBerg is known as the IceBerg Octopusari, and I cannot put off that trellis any longer.
Did I mention the old rose my neighbor dug up and dropped on my driveway? I had casually mentioned wanting a cutting when he announced last summer he was going to dig it up. Cuttings I got: Three of them, on roots resembling the hind legs of prehistoric cattle sat for about a month in a wading pool while I anquished over where to put these unknown pink pillars.
