One of the few flowers I know with confidence by name. This one was a few feet from my front doorstep when I found it, two or three feet beyond a leaf covered in droplets of water that I posted as Not Rain. When I went back to look two or three days later, it had opened.

Calla Lilies have been associated with the Virgin Mary for at least the last thousand years, and before that with Hera, wife of Zeus, in Greek mythology. They are symbolic of purity, owing to their stunning whiteness. But they are also funerary flowers symbolic of rebirth and resurrection, probably because they are not only beautiful, but extremely tenacious. They return from damage and neglect with an insensible determination.

The lilies in my patio garden were planted by a woman who lived next door from a heap of plants dug up and tossed in the trash. She carried them home, as she was want to do, dug a hole here and there, stuck them in and watered them, for a time at least. Since planting smaller flowers around them and watering them regularly, they have turned into a lush group of plants whose blooms seem endless. To use the epithet “crazy” for this woman would be to undersell her peculiarity. The police suggested that I document everything she said and did and take it to a judge in San Luis Obispo. But before that got very far the lady who owns the building had had enough. She gave her back her deposit with the understanding that if she ever set foot on the property again she would be arrested. It was a very stressful time, and I feel a tinge of regret.

But the lilies she planted are alive and well and absolutely stunning to behold. Anyone who finds himself face to face with one, by which I mean not a photograph or a painting of one, and and finds himself not impressed, has something missing in his very soul. I remember tearing one apart as a small child, tearing the petal, which is actually a leaf, and breaking the yellow spike. I remember holding the dispirit parts in my hands, flower gone, and thinking — this is a very strange memory — I had just done something wrong. Georgia O’Keeffe and Diego Rivera, and others, made it impossible not to think of calla lilies in sexual, spiritual, esthetic, and even ethnic terms. They are a true miracle of the plant world, things that rise from the trash and bad behavior, and make the heavens glow and almost speak.

I took the bus into town today. A slice of mushroom pizza, a peek at new and old books, and a final cup of coffee. What I found will keep me going for a while, but as time goes on, its importance will diminish. In a hundred years none of this will matter. The bricks and stone in this picture were set in place just over one hundred years ago. In these parts that’s a long time. The building is an historical monument. But I remember walking up marble steps in Copenhagen that were bowed in the center from the motion of feet walking up and down, not for a hundred years, but for hundreds and hundreds of years. These bricks and stone were laid in place by a San Luis Obispo contractor who probably had his picture taken next to the final work. I imagine him with a thick mustache and odd looking clothes. But the man or men who laid the steps in Copenhagen may or may not be known even by name. We look through a deep mist of time to form an impression of this event. It wasn’t someone’s grandfather or great-grandfather, but a person in the remote past. A person, yes, but someone with no connection to us. An alien of sorts. We do things and keep doing them, but for short periods of time. In the end, our contribution seems enormous, but in the longer end, it diminishes and fades and finally ceases. The town resisted tearing these buildings down because it hungered for heritage, thirsted for eons of time connecting it to the remote past. But all it got was some old buildings resisting the inevitable.

Just when you think there’s nothing left to see, and the camera is off and in your pocket, the world opens up in telling detail. What art department could come up with such a thing and color it like this? It seems to be hanging from a dead plant, but maybe that’s because I see only part of the process. It’s toward the back entrance of the library. I’m pretty sure it was a plant most people ignored. Except the gardener, of course, who left it where it was. Even now, one would have to stop and look to be surprised. To be amazed. To wonder what was happening and how it was almost missed.

I checked to see if the stem of this flower connected with the roots of the nasturtiums surrounding it. Indeed, this is a nasturtium flower, something I don’t remember seeing before, which is no fault of the nasturtiums. Why there would be a flower at all is what amazes me. This yard was all nasturtiums, then taken down to all dirt, and is now, once again, all nasturtiums. At first they were tiny specs of green, now they are full sized and thriving. Why would they need flowers at all is what I wonder, when they could reach New York by the simple but determined process of duplication. They could simply will themselves to reach New York. When you clear a yard of weeds and the weeds grow back, it’s not an earthshaking event. You clear a vague selection of weeds and another vague selection replaces it. But when you clear a yard of nasturtiums, and in the blink of an eye the yard fills back up with nasturtiums, you know that something is going on that has nothing to do with seeds and everything to do with unchecked manic botanical growth.

Weeds 5

A weed like tuft of grass pushing through a break in the sidewalk and the once red painted curb. Such a common site that it’s difficult to see. Weeds are plants nobody wants, but I doubt anyone at all has given this plant or tuft or weed any notice at all. It’s there and not there. When humans cease to exist, there will be no weeds at all. But something will be growing almost everywhere. Concrete will split, asphalt will crack and turn to powder, but grass and plants of every order will continue. Perhaps future behemoths without humans to worry about will find them delicious.

Two months ago I posted a rather dramatic picture of this plant in Bonsai taken at a corner lot about halfway up the hill on my daily walk. I talked about the owner being “meticulous.” The picture was from last December, but long before that, before I started taking pictures along the way, I watched him trim or prune what I took to be a tree inch by inch, an all day job. I watched him trim one tiny branch. Well, trimming time must have been while I was in the hospital. When I took my first walk I was dumfounded. There’s a house behind the bush or tree or plant. The tree was so tightly trimmed that you could see right through it. It seemed hardly there. I suppose he trimmed it the same way last year, but I’d forgotten the impact it made. And if it was twenty then, that means this is the twenty-first year of trimming it. May the process go on forever.

Weeds 4

Or Sweet Alyssum. It makes a beautiful thick white cover in a garden. The flowers are very small, and a good ground cover produces quite literally millions of them. Alyssum is weedlike, which is why I have included it here. You can buy alyssum as seed or in six packs at the garden supply. Or you can walk around vacant lots and just dig some up. There’s a little bit of alyssum almost everywhere here. This picture is from a small patch in a vacant lot next door.

I remember a small nursery in Torrance that got cut off from the main road by a shopping center. It was actually a house surrounded by a nursery on the corner of a residential area. When they went out of business they just walked away, leaving potted plants that had all died, and large rectangles of flats. This is an old memory, so it’s possible this was before six packs became common the way they are today. I remember my father buying everything in flats and cans for his summer landscaping jobs. And I remember cutting cans and separating out clumps of roots when I planted from the flats. I was only a boy at the time. But most of the flats were also dead in the abandoned nursery. Except flowery white tufts which seemed impervious to neglect.

I was on a long walk at the time and had cut through the residential area to avoid the shopping center. It was a strange sight. No fence. No signs. Just abandonment and neglect. I walked up to the flats overflowing with whiteness and saw something very strange. I saw a cone, with myself at the apex, of white flowering tufts going out in front of me into front yards, side yards, back yards, going out a hundred yards or more to the cinderblock wall of the shopping center. And the ocean breeze was behind me.

Alyssum is a self-propagating plant that propagates in the direction of the wind. Everywhere in this widening cone were clumps of white mixed in with every sort of landscaping. So, it’s both a beautiful plant, and a pernicious weed. Or a beautiful plant and a strangely beautiful weed.

I love it when two flowers come together. These were buried inside a bush about six inches from the surface in poor light. I’m not sure that they were part of the bush itself, but they caught my eye and stopped my feet. There’s something about two flowers as one that really gets me. But I was late for dinner and I snapped the photo and … that’s all there is. That and the memory of them.

Weeds 3

This looks to be something more than a common weed. Struggling for survival in an unkindly place, it clutches to the ground and reaches outward. It would be simple to say merely that it’s programmed to do so. But does one word sum up this activity? Have we reached an understanding if we find a word that says what we seem to feel? It’s like saying that the peddle is what makes the car go. Yes, you push the peddle and the car goes, but you have to push the right peddle at the right time for the right thing to happen. And even so, it’s not the peddle that makes the car go. The peddle is connected to a process that we barely understand. Between push and go is a seemingly infinite series of things linked one to the next that makes something happen. Like clutching and reaching. Having said these words, do we understand the plant? Or have we just tried to move on to something else?

There’s nothing easier than a bunch of pansies in a large pot to add color and freshness. These were near the entrance of McDonald’s, one of the few places within walking distance that isn’t completely tourist oriented. I sometimes have coffee there and — don’t tell my doctor — a small hamburger and fries with no salt. She gets upset when I tell her that. But I can buy three cups of coffee with refills for $3.24, one small for me and two large for homeless friends. Starbucks coffee is prohibitively expensive, costs even more for refills, and is bitter by comparison. So, I end up at McDonald’s more often than I should. I try to explain to the doctor that a small hamburger and a small fries is basically a snack. It holds me over until dinner at home and involves a half-hour walk in each direction. But she has her job and I have mine. I’m waiting to see what will replace the pansies when the weather warms.

Weeds 2

They seem to grow where it seems impossible to grow. And yet, there they are. We wonder if they have the power to push the sidewalk one way and the asphalt another. In a month or so, will something split? Weeds are a sort of reminder that we figure things out only so far, that the nooks and crannies we ignore are real. They exist as a kind of unsuspected opportunity. Something we believe had been eliminated. But there they thrive.

I don’t usually remember what I said about a picture. I see something to be said and say it. When I’m done I say something else. A day or so later I reread what I wrote, make corrections, if necessary — there are almost always corrections — and then either move it to a folder called To Be Posted, or take the time to actually post it. I currently have 65 posted, but waiting to be published, with 21 in the To Be Posted file ready to go. Counting this post, that makes 87 that have yet to be published. Which means that every day through mid-June and every other day through mid-July is presently accounted for. I tell people that if I die tomorrow, they won’t come looking for me until late July, but that’s not entirely true. The landlord will miss me just after the 1st of the month.

I wrote something rather satisfying about this photography of a spider web a few nights ago. I remember nodding and saying, “What a perfect ending.” But when I moved it to the To Be Posted file, the computer asked me a routine question, or so I thought, that I disregarded, and the file disappeared. It didn’t go somewhere else. It didn't end up in the Trash. It just ceased to exist. So I opened Pages only to realize that I had absolutely no memory of what I had just written. Something about sunlight and random spider webs. It was well written and had a nice ending. I remember that. But that’s all there was. That’s all I remembered between writing and directing the text to a holding file.

So, I leave you with what I remember.

[ I posted this title with the wrong text and photograph on the 17th of last month. Somehow I copied everything from the post published on the 13th. Everything except the title. I have corrected that mistake, but since it was so long ago, I am posting the correction today and will leave it up for a week or so, so everyone has a chance to read it.]

Pushing out over the sidewalk and dead leaves. I’m reminded of a study done more than fifty years ago that monitored eye movement over photographs. One of the more interesting results involved fishnet stockings and specifically men’s eyes. Women responded quite differently. Women seemed to assess the legs, moving up and down the central portion where more of the leg was visible. But men’s eyes went almost immediately to the periphery, the edge where the fishnet pattern started to condense. Men saw the outline of the leg more than the leg itself, and they did this not just a small percentage of the time, but almost the entire time. So, perhaps when I see plants growing over the edge of the sidewalk, I’m seeing with masculine eyes. When we planted the patio a few months ago, I made sure to plant some of the starters close enough to the edge that they would grow over it and onto the patio. In my mind, that would give them something that they otherwise lacked. I didn’t think about it, it was just something I did. But now that I do, I think it is the edge itself which is most visible, where the eye is drawn. At least, where my eye is drawn. Like this leftover bloom on the edge of the sidewalk.

Weeds 1

Everyone knows the difference between weeds and plants. You weed the garden but water the plants. In a very real sense, however, i.e. in a sense not tinged with poetic device or philosophy, there is absolutely no difference between the two. Weeds are simply the plants we don’t want. A rose bush in a field of wheat is a weed. A delightful dandelion in a manicured lawn is a weed. And all those native grasses that turn the hillsides green when it rains and the sun comes out, if they wander down the hill and into the garden, are nothing but weeds. The distinction between plants and weeds is a false dichotomy. You and I are the primary difference between the two.

This is what dialysis looks like. At least one corner of it. There are more than twenty such setups in one spacious room. The machines beep and warn and make other strange noises that drove me absolutely crazy the first two days, until I brought a more interesting book to read. Then it all sort of blended into reading time. There is an overall coordinator on the floor, nurses in blue and nurses aides in white. There is also a dietitian, a social worker, an independent nurse, a peritoneal dialysis nurse, a receptionist, and various doctors who come and go. All of them are extremely good at what they do. This is Carla and her friend Mariel sitting down to the right. They are on loan from Santa Maria, which is a long drive to the south, and if I laughed and giggled as much as they do in the space of one work day, I would be too exhausted to stand up. They make work fun and dialysis interesting. They smile and joke and carry on, and I think how dull the world would be without them.

You can see by the clock that it’s just after 5:15. At 5:30 my buzzer will go off and they will spring to action. It takes almost a half-hour to disconnect me and for me to pack and leave. My bus home is three and a half blocks from just outside the window and it leaves at 6:33. So this is just about the best time of the entire day. I leave with a spring in my step thinking about how horrible I thought this was going to be.

I used to think that the fire department installed fire plugs. I never had any reason to doubt that. But when I started to type something about this plug, it sounded wrong. The fire department doesn’t have a bureaucracy or the equipment to accomplish that task. They obviously use the plugs, but that would seem to be the end of their involvement, unless they recommend where the plugs should go, and test them to make sure they're working. It seems more correct to think that the city or the county has that job. They have people to map out water pipes and equipment and people to install them. So the fresh coat of paint on this plug that got my attention would probably be courtesy of the city more so than the fire department. I really like the fire department here and was just about to compliment them on it. I guess I could call and ask, but this armchair scrutiny has more to do with probability than actuality. If I’m good with it, the problem is solved. But it's a good looking plug, don’t you think?

I found these on part of the church grounds I seldom walk past. They seem to be growing from a kind of grass. It was fascinating to find something so beautiful where nothing had been before. Grass isn’t the most interesting plant in the world. I pass a great deal of grass without paying it the least attention. Maybe they’re just pushing up through the grass. I couldn’t tell. The next time I’m at the nursery I’ll show this picture to them and ask what’s going on. But why would you plant ordinary grass when you could plant something that takes a deep breath and shoots up hundreds of such blooms, if that’s what’s happening? I should have looked more carefully, but I only started to think about it on the way home, and by then there were no answers.

This is a forlorn section of my walk that has started to turn green. When the days lengthen, the sun intensifies and the moisture evaporates, it will return to everyday dirt. But for now its parameters have become ideal for the production of moss, a kind of scum that covers the earth from time to time. It grows on the backside of trees to avoid the sun, which is a way to find north in a crowded forrest, and in shadowy areas under leaves and the shade of walls. It is often associated with decay and forgottenness. But to give it credit, it has turned this dismal patch of ground into something worth stopping to look at. It is a sign that there is always hope.

To me, the blooms are beautiful, but the randomness of the blooms has a strange appeal. Nothing lines up. Everything goes in its own direction. But each flower is absolutely beautiful. And one can look and look and never see the same thing twice.

Most people are only vaguely aware that Easter arrives on different days of the year. They just look at the calendar and work from there. But it really is a very simple and compact formula, though with a long and confusing history. At the Council of Nicea (325), called by Constantine I, it was decided that Easter should be celebrated on the first Sunday on or after the first full moon on or after the vernal equinox, though it wasn't stated in exactly that way. The vernal equinox is the first day of spring when the day and the night are of equal length. It is midway between the longest and shortest days of summer and winter, and opposite the autumnal equinox. The Council of Nicea tried to coordinate the solar and lunar calendars for this holiday. This year the equinox came on the 20th of March. Saturday the 31st was the full moon, so Sunday (today) is Easter Sunday. You don’t have to remember any of this, but sometimes it’s just nice to know how things work.

It may or may not be appropriate that today is also April Fools’ Day. But there is a long tradition of teaching fools that is more esoteric than exoteric. Michael Frost, an Australian “missiologist”, has published what looks to be a wonderful read: Jesus the Fool: The Mission of the Unconventional Christ.
What do I mean by saying Jesus was a fool? There are two levels of meaning. The first is that by this world’s standards of success, prestige, and influence, Jesus can be considered a failure, a misguided (though commendable) fool. The second level is the more provocative. It suggests that Jesus actually played the fool in order to enhance his ministry. I think both are true.
It seems a lot more promising than most of the April Fools’ jokes one is likely to encounter. I’ve only read as much as you have, but I think I like it.

A busy insect in a profusion of disorganized blooms. We think of flowers as things with stems that fit into vases, but those are actually the exception. Flowers are also sloppy jumbles of things that happen in limitless number, accomplishing in the process their purpose and their goal. This insect is proof of the effectiveness of such flowers. Perhaps they also smell good, though smell and photographs do not go hand in hand. If their smell is irresistible, then their appearance as photographed is secondary. My father used night blooming jasmine only once or twice in his designs, for people who insisted upon jasmine. He hated the smell. For my part, I absolutely adore the smell. If I could have night blooming jasmine in my bedroom I would sleep soundly every night. It has the odor of peacefulness and rest. But the purpose of a flower’s smell is to attract insects, to propagate. You’d think that jasmine would be covered with insects top to bottom. But for the life of me, I don’t remember insects. I remember — as I close my eyes — the smell of jasmine. Pure and simple. Of course, I’m not an insect.

Normally attributed to Mies van der Rohe, because of the New York Times 1969 obituary. But sometimes there are so many details that one becomes lost. Old nails, old paint and spiderwebs. Even on Mies van der Rohe constructions. But nothing so terrible as this. A detail from my balcony. Something I ignore at all costs. It’s there and not there. A patchwork of unimportant detail. And yet, the closer I look the more bedeviled I become. The world is a matter of perspective.

These plants have just gone on being themselves for quite some time. Leaves and refuse have accumulated around them, but they are undeterred. Every so often I see something that is almost perfect, and it requires a good long look. Enjoy.

This flower is only a bit larger than my thumb. It’s part of a hedge hanging over a fence toward the sidewalk. I was going to say hundreds, but I suspect it has thousands of such blooms, and not one of them perfect. It’s the kind of thing that closeness rewards. I know almost nothing about flower anatomy, beyond what I learned in junior high school. Pistil, stamen, petal, ovary. But I think the mystery of flowers is more important than their botany. Yes, flowers have a sex life, and that’s important up to a point. Our brain requires that. But our heart, if we allow it to, feels the tug and pull of the flower’s… What shall we say, spiritual dimension? The brain and the heart are not enemies, but they live together with difficulty. The brain rejects the spiritual, and the heart holds a hand against the brain. But rational and irrational are not opposites.

Like an endless field of repeating flowers. One hedge wide and one hedge long. Enough to get lost in. But I’ve noticed that almost everyone walking past fails to notice. It’s an odd world in which nothing is beautiful. These same people go home as directly as possible to stare at television. To watch commercials. To listen to sales pitches. To pretend that what they are watching is worth seeing. When they have already abandoned sight. When they see their way home to open their eyes and see nothing. It’s an odd world, one that flowers, but is not seen.

I’ve written elsewhere, see Stars and Constellations, about how the people around here are generally ignorant of planets and constellations. I credit that to the prevalence of fog and overcast skies, though I may have been a bit charitable in that regard. Tonight I walked 25 minutes down hill in the cold from the market home. Since being in the hospital I walk much slower than I did. I mention this because for 25 minutes I watched Venus glow and glare above Morro Rock, the core of an ancient volcano sitting just off the coast. I watched it decline in the sky until I reached home and ran for warmth. This was the view near the beginning of my walk home over the library parking lot with trees and power poles in the way. Of course the same view is available everywhere, except, I suppose, the southernmost reaches where the sun itself has ceased to be visible. The sun sank behind Morro Rock, allowing Venus to shine a bit brighter than it might.

Of course Astrology has provided us with unlimited interpretations of this phenomenon. Here’s one example from
When it comes to love and money, Venus is the place to look. Yes, transits, progressions and eclipses to your natal Venus will be the major markers to look out for in anticipation of a major shift in money and romantic matters. But to add even more depth of flavor to your analysis, it's a good idea to look at your Venus Return chart each year.
We can see the broad outlines of the story of Satan in the activity of Venus, if our minds are open. One of the various names for Satan is Lucifer. Lucifer means something akin to brightness. Venus reaches its brightest point before falling from the sky. The fall of Satan is an important subject in Christianity. It falls from the night sky and is “reborn” in the morning sky. From there it rises, becomes dimmer and dimmer until it finally passes behind the sun and disappears. In a sense, then, Satan is chased away, only to return. This story is hidden in the New Testament without mentioning Venus.

To imagine all this you must visualize Venus as having an orbit between the earth and the sun. It can rise from the sun as a dim spec of light, grow in size, grow very bright, though by then, like the moon it is only a crescent because it is nearing the sun, and then continue between the earth and sun until it disappears. It cannot appear in midheaven or in the eastern sky. Of course, it then continues into the morning sky, rising before the sun and eventually passing behind it.

The Transit of Venus is a very rare occurrence when as Venus passes from the night to morning it passes directly through the disc of the sun. This last happened in 2004 and eight years later in 2012. It will not happen again 2117. These transits provided Shirley Hazzard with the backdrop for a novel, Transit of Venus in 1980. A novel that won the National Book Critics Circle Award for Fiction among many others. A wonderful novel that was nonetheless difficult to read. I recommend it to those who don’t mind difficult books that are worth the effort.

On a humorous note, I received a phone call a number of years ago from a psychiatrist friend. He was standing in the parking lot of the hospital looking at something in the eastern (by which he meant western) sky and it hadn't moved for at least ten minutes. It's close to the zenith (which it might be if his head were tilted, or if that's where he expected it to be) and I should go outside at once and look in his direction. He was almost positive he was looking at a flying saucer. He didn't believe my explanation about Venus, and still tells people that flying saucers are real because he has seen them (them) himself.

All this aside, Venus will be in the early evening sky for a while now. It has just surpassed the sun and will climb and become brighter as it does so and then astonish us as it disappears. It will be bright enough to peek through a light fog (if you live in Morro Bay) or it will seem to light the sky if you live where the sky is clear. And then it won't be there. Pay attention. You may enjoy this.

I should look up more often when I walk. I have a mild fear of falling, so I’m always careful where my feet go. Fortunately, the flowers that I snap, generally speaking, are close to my feet, so I don’t have the impression that I’m missing much. Not until I stop to take a breath near sunset and realize that things have been going on in the sky without me. This was a spectacular cloud that had no purpose that I could tell. It came at the end of day announcing, I suppose, beauty. That’s all I discerned. There were no other clouds in the sky to speak of. There was no rain and not much humidity. The late afternoon sun had nothing to catch besides this strangely twisted and oddly temporary cloud. Had I made it home without looking up, it would have been gone. But today it called out and I responded. How much else, I wonder, have I missed?

This is the tiniest scrap of minuscule flowers in a portion of what was once the garden at the Yoga Center. Parts of it are covered in leaves and debris. As I understand it, though I don’t know this for a fact, this represents an emergency backup plan where a piece of root severed from its plant sends up a sudden bloom. A last ditch effort to reproduce. Humans, of course, lack this capacity. Our gestation period wanders through the seasons, and when the going gets tough, we tend just to die. There are many more plants than humans on the earth.

I will use this opportunity to pass on a bit of gossip delivered to me by a neighbor. It wasn’t a gardener who hacked away at the plants for the landlord, it was a group of forty or more people who came one day while I was in the hospital to dig up and replant what was once the Yoga Center garden. People who value plants and probably yoga, who will donate back the plants when the time comes, or else their offspring. The Yoga Center has a temporary home and is negotiating (at least talking with the city about) a city owned empty structure not far from here that was once a restaurant, but hasn’t been occupied for several years. It would give them lots of room and at least a minimal garden area. It would also be much more visible than their present temporary location. I wish them luck, and trust that their success will radiate throughout the community.

I pass this way every six weeks or so. It’s on the way I walk to the barber shop. I hate haircuts enough that I pretend I’m doing almost anything else. I focus on getting there and on the way I block out almost everything else for fear that I won’t get there at all. And when I noticed this to the left of me about a block from home, I almost forgot about haircuts. I seem to have posted a neighboring flower of tyis type on the fourth of this month in Speak the Speech I Pray You. But I don't think one can look too often at such things. This is a stupendous bloom. Or, I should say, these are stupendous. They seem unnecessarily complex for such a forgettable shrub. But this is why shrubs continue, I suppose. It’s almost as if something tropical and exotic got accidentally crossed with something about to be tossed out. An ordinary bush with world class flowers. Large puffy things. Brightly colored. Absolutely mysterious. I looked for the longest time before remembering why I happened to be there.

I’ve called a number of flowers daisy like, but this, I think, is actually a daisy. Of course, I could be wrong. There’s a tiny bug on the far right petal and up one. I found the bug when I looked closely at the photograph. All of the flowers look to be in similar condition, by which I mean not perfect, and this leads me to believe that it’s typical of this variety. It’s in a strip with a sprinkler system, so it gets plenty of water. I think I snapped this picture as a reminder to find out what the limits of daisies are. And having pursued that question for a few minutes on Wikipedia, I realize that daisies could be a lifetime study — there is absolutely no end to them. They come in all colors and proportions imaginable. Of course, my personal study consists of those growing on my walk to the store and back, and even then there seem too many to master. Bellis perennis, or the common daisy, according to Wikipedia, is often considered to be an invasive weed. To which I say, more Bellis perennis.

Things exposed after cleaning up of the church yard. This deserves a yard of its own, or at least its own walkway surrounding it. I could have cleaned around it a bit, but this is what there was after they hacked and hauled the weeds and cut down the boughs that hung down hiding things. It was a mess that I simply walked past before. Now it is filled with miracles such as this.