
Photo courtesy Flickr
Last summer I was enchanted by the combination of grace and low maintenance that wildlings offer in a small landscape. A native yellow iris planted in the overflow area by the pond looks as if it has grown there on its own. It has developed into a forthright accent with none of the cultivation that is usually suggested for iris-a highly groomed look is counter-productive. I have enjoyed the view of its foliage backlighted by afternoon sun, the integrity of a clump that has been respected but never trimmed, divided, or watered, and especially the sculptural elegance of the seed stalks, whose pods resemble bronze when ripe.
The iris grew across the main path, a tripping hazard for guests, and yesterday I took a whack at it with a hand scythe after a couple of hours of playing catch-up with this year’s maintenance. The result was as charming as a self-inflicted haircut with dull scissors. In one second, I undid the lovely result of four seasons of careful non-maintenance and proved a garden theory that has been thirty-five years in the making: most of the work in a garden is created by the gardener, not the plants. Wild plants are not crops, and it makes no sense to manage them as such.
A couple of minutes on my knees with pruners brought the clump a reprieve from full ugliness, but it has been compromised. The best I will be able to do until spring is to make it look as if an elk stepped on it. It would have been wiser to make a fast pass at the iris with a sharp spade, cutting off the section that is challenging the walk and transplanting it slightly downstream in the seepage from pond overflow.
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