I have wandered through the marigold patch while birds talk to each other. I swear they are calling for “Richard Richard Richard”. I wonder who Richard is or how he got lost. I could spend hours with the marigolds, pulling leaves that are wilted, pruning branches too long and too heavy with the weight of too many blooms. I always feel bad when I have to cut off diseased leaves or worn limbs because, after all, they’ve worked so hard to make each stem, each petal and here I am with my garden shears pruning it all back. It’s for their own good I tell them. Still they always look sad when I do it. Afterwards they usually thank me, of course, with brand new flowers and new, stronger stems. Deep down they know I’m just an old friend making the hard decisions a good friend should. Always now in the back of my mind weighs the ticking clock drawing me nearer to work. While working my mind wanders back to the garden. I linger insufferably between two worlds.
Let’s take a stroll through the marigolds, shall we? I am enchanted by the rich yellow orange tones of each flower. How do they make such things of great beauty with only some soil and water and light from the sun? How do they stand so tall on their stems? For the discerning eye, you are correct, these aren’t traditional marigolds. They are calendula whose street name is pot marigold for some reason. So far I haven’t caught them ever with any sort of pot, street variety or other.