Layers of leaves serve as protection for crowns, for critters, and for insects. Retaining moisture and slowly breaking down to feed the plants and kingdom below.
I intervene, removing the fresh layers of leaves. Helping the more sensitive and less aggressive plants to hold their ground. It is unnatural.
Seed heads begin to sparkle in the sunlight. Blossoms and petals fall to the ground like confetti. They ripen, with hopes and dreams of continuing their legacy and carrying on to the next generation, guided in due time.
I sharpen my pruners, selectively removing and editing garden spaces. We don’t need more phlox. No need for more silene. Unruly echinacea bow and collapse onto one another, with their spiky heads longing to serve as a place to rest and a food source for the birds.
So I leave some behind—seed heads are a treasure. And secretly, I try to leave some behind in even some of my most manicured properties. Even just a few—it’s my duty and offering to the natural world.
Where are the birds and the butterflies? They might ask next season…a response and explanation to the neat and orderly that they struggle to accept. I anticipate the question, the response, and do my quiet work of less intervention.
Beauty in decline—or is it simply pausing? Regrouping and recharging, guided by the seasons, preparing for the season ahead.
