May 11, 2005
Gardening
The blooms on our garden’s false blue indigo this year are yellow. The fire pinks are bright and brilliant red. Nature does as well it pleases, whatever name we tag it with.
Those pinks have nothing to do with color, I’ve discovered, but with how their blooms are shaped. It’s those serrated edges, pinked are they. Hence, one of the early mysteries of my childhood (there were — and are still — so many wonderful ones!) as to why pinking shears and the jazzy cuts they make across the fabrics they encounter. Now, I know, more or less.
I don’t know how far Eve and Adam got with their Eden inventory and filing system before their lease was up and the gate was shut behind them, but I suspect they left a few leaves unturned. And now that Jesus has slipped in and jimmied the lock open, it’s up to us to discover what’s under them and call them something for heaven’s sake.
Careful, though. When those early gardeners found out, you remember what a mess they got into.