August drabbles - 23
My Oregon - 2 Pretty in Pink
The bushes I planted my first year here were dead by the end of the season. I hadn’t realized Oregon summers would be so hot and dry. After all my labors only brittle twigs remained. I crushed it unseen while pulling weeds.
Now six years on, six long hot summers, six droughts, and I’m weeding again; dandelion suns, daisies like bridal veils webbing the grass, and something dusty purple—or borrowed or blue.
But the tiny pink flowers that trickle from pale woody stems are surely not weeds. Those bushes I planted my first year here bloom again, forever new.
The bushes I planted my first year here were dead by the end of the season. I hadn’t realized Oregon summers would be so hot and dry. After all my labors only brittle twigs remained. I crushed it unseen while pulling weeds.
Now six years on, six long hot summers, six droughts, and I’m weeding again; dandelion suns, daisies like bridal veils webbing the grass, and something dusty purple—or borrowed or blue.
But the tiny pink flowers that trickle from pale woody stems are surely not weeds. Those bushes I planted my first year here bloom again, forever new.
Comments