The dappled light on our smoke bush and willow yesterday morning called for an impromptu excursion into the backyard. I wonder what the neighbours thought of the lady in her housecoat and slippers, shaking a camera at her garden shrubs?
I stopped by a grocery store – not my usual one – for a bag of milk.
On the way to the checkout, I passed the floral department.
I came out of the grocery store with a bag of milk, a potted daisy, and that fuzzy, warm feeling of awe and gratitude that arrives when one witnesses something small but extraordinary.
Despite rambling on during my last post about the joy of being outdoors, I didn’t feel like making pictures outside today because the air was cold enough to hurt my face. So I bought myself a flower instead. And my face feels great.
A beautiful garden appeals to all the senses, and doesn’t ignore the imagination. I’m no master gardener (far from it), but, if I do say so myself, I’m quite skilled at garden admiration.
I’d gushed about the building on site earlier this spring, but many of the garden beds were only emerging at that time. The annuals have now filled out, providing a feast for the eyes, but also an invitation to bend down and brush a hand over the blooms. This artful sculpture alone has several textures covered: spiky sedum, velvety foliage, silky petals and a coarse bed of mulch.
I tried to capture the graceful lines and patterns of this planting – I only wish I’d been able to make a photo from a greater height to really highlight the spread of this bird’s “feathers.”
What’s an appropriate amount of time to spend with a bird made of flowers? Whatever it is, I think I exceeded it. But floral birds were made for admiration.
And I’m really good at that.