It is a time of fear in the face of freedom, a time of an emptying country and swelling cities, a time for the widening of previous roads and the opening of new paths, yet a time when these paths are mined by knowing algorithms of the all-seeing eye. It is the time of the warrior's peace and the miser's charity, when the planting of a seed is an act of conscientious objection. These are the times when maps fade, old landmarks crumble and direction is lost. Forwards is backwards now, so we glance sideways at the strange lands through which we are all passing, knowing for certain only that our destination has disappeared. We are unready to meet these times, but we proceed nonetheless, adapting as we wander, reshaping the Earth with every tread. Behind us we have left the old times, the standard times, the high times. Welcome to the irregular times.
Late in the season, it seems, they get blooming serious.
A garden is a relationship.
In this case, it’s a bumbling one.
Dad: Why did you take so long coming up the hill?
Son: Oh, I was just looking at those pink plants by the road.
Dad: Did you like the flowers?
Son: They were OK, but I really like the seed pods. Do you know what they do?
Dad: Yes; just be sure not to bring […]
Evocative allium flower buds. […]
The pursuit of death is the scent that brings this bee hungry to the bloom.
Less than one minute after I took this photograph, a snow began to fall which covered these flowers. Even the English primrose will not, I think, persist in blooming now.
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