I’ve been sooooo busy, both at the keyboard and with life, that I haven’t been posting here regularly. In good news, this means that my various writing projects are coming along well. In bad news, well, I haven’t produced much blog content of late. “Yeah, um, still writing” isn’t exactly the most thrilling of reads, I know.
So let’s move to the gardens, where things are exciting.
I absolutely adore this flower, with its unique pink-coral color and irregular splashes of white. I didn’t buy it, or plant it, but it appears to have been put here just to please me. (If it was divinely scented, it would be my all-time favorite plant, but that’s just being far too picky. Camellias are, unfortunately, completely scent-free.)
My neighbor has a unique thing happening in her garden. Her agave has sprouted a flower stalk. This might not sound like much, but take a look at this. I mean this thing is immense. And it changes. When it first sprouted, it looked like a giant stalk of asparagus. I am not kidding.
The plant is in a spot normally quite hidden from me anywhere in the house or outside, except, it seems, from the kitchen sink. So there I was doing dishes and I looked up, still thinking about food and dinner, and I thought “Hmm, that’s an odd giant stalk of asparagus. Where did that come from?” And then I dropped the towel and ran to the window, pressing my face against it as I looked for the aliens who would eat said giant asparagus. Seeing none, I ran to the neighbor’s yard and stared in awe at the huge stalk. It’s thicker around than my thigh at the base.
Now those puffs are starting to open into the actual, individual florets. It’s pretty amazing.
The sad part is that once the blossom fades, the fruit ripens, and the stalk dies back, the entire plant will die. This won’t be a small problem, either, as the plant itself is a wonderfully huge and architectural “structure” in the garden. I know it’s hard to tell from the photo, but those innermost needle-tipped leaves are nearly as tall as I am! The needles themselves are as long as the first 2 knuckles of my finger. It’s going to cause a massive void. But one that will gladly be filled by the offspring, I’m sure. Such is nature’s way, even if not the will of the human gardener.