Every year, towards the end of May when the possibility of sudden frost has passed, I buy eight red geraniums to plant in my kitchen window boxes. It's a mindless excursion--just what I need to mark the end of a mentally draining school year. I chose my flowers by my senses. Like a hummingbird I let myself be drawn to the red of the moment. Some years it has a hint of orange. Some years blue.
But it's always red. When I moved into my house fifteen years ago, I was seduced by pinks and mauves, but unlike red, those colors don't hold the light. They don't draw my eye the second I turn the last bend of my driveway and glimpse home. They don't glow from a distance or blend into the weathered gray cedar siding. No consensus building here!
I want to be surprised by an opened bud when I l glance through my kitchen window. Bright and crisp, it has made it into this world where every element has to be just right to foster its growth. A cultivated flower in a root-bound setting, but you wouldn't know it to see it in all its stubborn radiance.
Color, life, growth--and all I have to do is add water.
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