I associate months of the year with corresponding colours. Not in a true synesthesia sort of way; just the way my brain works. When I think of the month names, May is pink, and June is vivid green. While I'm at it, here are the rest: January is grey (but a lovely light grey with a hint of blue), February is navy blue, but with a bit of grey in it, March is white, April is bright Smurf blue, July is red, August is a washed-out yellow like bright yellow canvas that was out in the sun for too long, October is vivid orange, November is a lovely dark rusty brown, and December is the deepest forest green. September is the golden yellow of sunflowers and goldenrod. Obviously. (Just to clarify, it's not goldenrod in the picture; it's actually called Stinking Willie, which I think is possibly the best weed name, ever.)
I have tried to grow sunflowers on many, many occasions. I love how perfectly cheerful and wide open to the world they are. It's one of those gardening things where everyone else seems to have no trouble at all, but mine would never grow - usually just before the first true leaves appeared, slugs or some other critter would nibble them down to the ground. I tried starting them indoors, directly, in different beds, at different places we lived - no luck. So a few years ago, I gave up. Not in a defeated sort of way, just a happy relinquishing of control to the universe. So imagine my great delight and surprise when this summer, with almost no effort on my part whatsoever, this happened.
I think I was more delighted than I would have been if I had worked hard to get these to grow. In the spring, I scattered some sunflower seeds in the run for our old flock of hens. After they were gone, the seeds they missed had a chance to get started while the younger chickens were still too small to be out in the run. By the time they were big enough, it was like their own personal little jungle filled with sturdy-stemmed sunflowers. It was perfect, actually - they had shade from the leaves through the hottest weather and could have a spot to hide if they wanted.
The bees were certainly pleased about it, too. This isn't one of our bees, but there were often at least four or five on each flower.
I took these pictures a few weeks ago; things are looking sparer now that the first frost has come and many of the weeds have died back. Now that the sunflowers have faded and the seeds have developed, the chickens are enjoying those, too.
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I do love a good poem. E.E. Cummings, and Mary Oliver are two poets whose work always hit the spot. I think I need to have a poetry binge, and soon. This is the one, by Alice Walker, which came to mind as I was thinking about surprise.
Expect nothing. Live frugally
On surprise.
become a stranger
To need of pity
Or, if compassion be freely
Given out
Take only enough
Stop short of urge to plead
Then purge away the need.
Wish for nothing larger
Than your own small heart
Or greater than a star;
Tame wild disappointment
With caress unmoved and cold
Make of it a parka
For your soul.
Discover the reason why
So tiny human midget
Exists at all
So scared unwise
But expect nothing. Live frugally
On surprise.