To sow beans? And squash? And corn? And and and?
Well… yes… outside.
But inside? Nah…
And I haven’t had a successful second sprouting of peppers yet. The front porch forgotten greenhouse may have me destined for the nursery.
The tomatoes
and sunflowers
are still growing strong, though.
Never mind the extinction of that dinosaur.
I see you. You think I don’t. I see you. Creep.
I’ll watch. You’ll turn.
Flick.
You’re gone,
Creep.
A bumble by a neighbor’s vine.
A wild sunflower lends a trunk.
Okra reaching for the sky.
…
I’ve missed time outside. Missed may be too gentle of a word. Craved? Yearned? Viscerally required..
With the more potent creatures of energy in this house discovering, pounding upon, and vocally barraging any boundary set before them… bedtime has fallen.
And with it, any hope at a regular visit to the garden in the evenings. Even with the garden a mere fifteen feet from the back door, it may seem miles these days.
Such that a large Black Prince splits one day and mildews in its splits the next.
I have my seeds for the next solstice now at least.
The okra is coming in slowly. Curious. Not enough at once for even a side dish. Perhaps the ten or so plants will gain momentum and I’ll rue this day soon enough.
A melon has appeared in the green beans. Did I plant that? This year? Or was it last?
The zinnias are, finally, holding true to promises of summer blooms. I hope the fun pops of pink and orange will continue as the heat climbs higher. The nasturtiums are hanging on, the troopers.
The corn lost the battle with gravity after the second flattening. The storm two weeks back took out the corn, half the tomatoes, and both windshields on my car (via tree.)
I should really remove it but have to move the beautifully composted compost out of the cooked pile first and… time in the garden is left wanting.
So happy solstice, y’all. From one still sunlit corner of the world, brightened ever more my a smaller sun mimic, to yours. May the ride down the backside of this year’s coaster be joyful, healthful, and grateful.
I think I’ve sown sunflower seeds seven different times over the past nine years. Only one of those was the first, but the seventh was another first – the first successful year.
And here we are.
Sometimes we’re caught off guard and knocked flat.
Sometimes a storm is just what you need.
Sometimes you aren’t prepared for unprecedented growth.
Sometimes you are.
And sometimes, no matter how hard you fight it, passions persist.
Don’t mind the stink bug.
And some savory…
And some tart…
And some theset with the sour hidden within…
We grew sunflowers once when I was little. The giant kind, with faces bigger than your head. I remember being astonished at the sheer number of seeds in one sunflower. I also remember being surprised at how differently the seeds tasted! This year, I sowed four kinds of sunflowers, even some of the giants.
Only one came up.
She’s a fighter.
plumdirt 