I marvel at the designs professional landscapers create with color and texture and in the past have tried to give careful thought to what flower should go where.
I didn't plant flowers last summer claiming our travels would keep me from caring for them, but I tried again this summer.
I thought about colors and sunlight, yellows and purples, pinks and whites - all to compliment the perennials that continue to thwart destruction despite the fact they were planted by me in my yard. I planted and fertilized and mulched. I have watered faithfully. The flowerbeds have not turned out like I planned.
The petunias, a hardy sun-loving plant, lay skinnier than full and have not fanned out in the bed like they do in the planters around town. The rose moss, usually hardy for our humid, heat-filled days have not produced and remain in the original clumps in which they were planted. Only one planter of periwinkles has flourished and only one of the three planters full of soft shade loving spillers is still full of soft, easy blossoms.
But I go out every night and water each penance of discipline; I pull the Bermuda that grows prolifically where the flowers will not and pinch off the dead heads of the infrequent blooms. I will keep trying and tending what I started in the spring, but I long for what I thought it would be.
Psalm 119: 27-28