It's a rainy Sunday here on the seacoast. I had wanted to take a long bike ride, but instead I am mucking about in the very wet earth and wondering if I really have to pull the pansies from my window boxes. I am one of those people that hates doing something twice. Every spring when I plant pansies I mentally steel myself for the day that the weather will be too warm and they will be leggy and exhausted looking. Always in the spring I think--why bother? But pansies are so hopeful, particularly here in New England where from February on, it is one long slog to the day one can actually get into the garden.
I planted boxwoods, hostas, tomatoes, peppers and impatiens.
But it is only the pansies that cause me angst. All of the other plants have a nice long season. By the time they wither there is a hint of autumn in the air and I am preparing myself for change. But when the pansies wither, I am just hitting my summer stride. I think I feel sorry for these earnest little plants. Each year I think--no more pansies...but I know myself--I am sure I will be one of the first in line next spring, jacket buttoned up to my neck, a flat of pansies in my arms and hope in my heart.
