My granddaughter loves pink and likes to wear it. I think real men eat home-grown lettuce while wearing pink. I have mixed feelings about pink–I think it’s wonderful for tongues, sunsets, and healthy tonsils. Even my glasses are pink, and I look quite fetching (and intelligent) when I wear them, though not quite so much as when I wear my sunglasses, which are not pink and therefore help me look mean and single-minded when I’m driving down Morgantown Road into the sun.
But yesterday, I learned a new love of pink–the peach blossoms on the volunteer tree that sprouted a few years ago next to our propane tank, and which no one had the heart to remove or transplant to a more dignified location. But peach blossoms do not need a well-landscaped yard to sing out their love of pink . . . as you can see:
Pink goes well with softly veined petals opened wide to the sun and air, and it also goes well with curled up buds.
And finally (for now), pink does very well as a blur in the eye, or perhaps the bottom hem of a flowery curtain just lifted to view our backyard and our neighbor’s, the Renfros, on the other side of our fire pit and fence. Mr. Renfro is a gardener extraordinaire, and yesterday began dropping seeds into the nearest 3-foot swath, as you can see. Mr. Renfro is not a half-assed gardener, like me, and his garden is one that I lust after…