purple grass and purple as-ters

This year the drifts of seedheads from purple lovegrass, a.k.a. tumblegrass, aren't as deep as they were last year, although the winds of yesterday and today have this year's drifts growing rapidly. We think that last year we may have let snowfall compact the seedhead drifts during the Winter, which made them more manageable come Spring. Or, perhaps, that's all a fantasy and we simply ran the tractor mower deck through the drifts. Since we don't remember how we disposed of them last year, we can start this year's clean-up effort with the proverbial clean sheet of paper. Clearly, it's easier to work with nature on some things than on others. Tumblegrass is one of those others.

drifts of tumblegrass seedheads [2017]

Photo by J. Harrington

After inspecting the potted flower purchases we made yesterday, the Better Half suggested that, rather than plant the mums this year, we leave them and the asters stacked around the planting pots by the front stoop. That would save digging the potted plants in this autumn, and out again next year since they usually fail to survive the Winter, but may end up shortening this year's blooming season. We normally put pumpkins - morphing into jack-o-lanterns - on top of the planting pots next month. Further thought and discussion on seasonal decorations are in order, as are taking some photos when more of the mums have begun to bloom. Meanwhile, here's a picture of a late season bee enjoying last year's asters. They didn't survive last Winter where we planted them. There may be something to this planting asters in the Spring. Maybe, if we don't plant them in the ground, we could bring them into the house before the snow gets too deep and try to keep them alive over the Winter. Hmmmm.

asters with bee

Photo by J. Harrington

Loving Working

Naomi Shihab Nye, 1952

     “We clean to give space for Art.”
        Micaela Miranda, Freedom Theatre, Palestine

Work was a shining refuge when wind sank its tooth
into my mind. Everything we love is going away,
drifting – but you could sweep this stretch of floor,
this patio or porch, gather white stones in a bucket,
rake the patch for future planting, mop the counter
with a rag. Lovely wet gray rag, squeeze it hard
it does so much. Clear the yard of blowing bits of plastic.
The glory in the doing. The breath of the doing.
Sometimes the simplest move kept fear from
fragmenting into no energy at all, or sorrow from
multiplying, or sorrow from being the only person
living in the house.

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.