“Weeds are flowers, too, once you get to know them.”~Winnie the Pooh
It’s the middle of August. The garden phlox are out in abundance. When they were still growing tall and before they flowered and unleashed their glory, a friend thought they were weeds. As much to say “Why don’t you cut those things down?” I was aghast. As defensive of those flowers as a mother of her children. “No, no, those are phlox. Give them time. You’ll see.” And so they grew and grew, their green leaves outstretched bilaterally all the way up their stems, soaking in the sun’s radiant energy. Some stems almost reached my shoulder. Their little buds appeared one day, swirled up like closed umbrellas. And then finally, the unfurling.
Now the garden is a riot of pink. Bumblebees, hummingbirds, hummingbird moths, wasps, they all love the phlox. The rain comes and bends the stems. We brush past the blooms on the brick walk, a dozen flowers confetti to the ground. Compliments abound. “These are pretty. What do you call them?” “Oh, these are phlox,” I say, matter of factly, like the mother of some of the fairest maidens in all the land. We take in the wonder and the fragrance and revel in the pink party. And all because we were patient. And waited. Love is patient. It knows how to wait.