Playing catch-up yesterday, I bustled out into the bone-dry garden to harvest something, anything, to display in a crude pottery vessel that sits on the table in the front hall. The process was more akin to Sally Field’s “Norma Rae” flip-out dinner menu than a stately exercise in ikebana.
I cut dock, fireweed, Queen Anne’s lace, a shaft of nascent bamboo, the odd sport of boxwood, and topped the whole mess with a couple of stems of potato blossom, arranging as I cut by rotating the bunch in my hand a la David N. Hicks. I trimmed the stems even and called it good.
The pot had been sitting around full of water waiting for posies. I wanted to get to it before the mosquitos did. When I stuffed the flowers into the vessel, they looked little more graceful than the process that got them there. Several hours later, they had rehydrated and oriented toward each other in unexpectedly elegant relationships. I suspect the tough, dry flora will last longer in the pot than the highly cultivated bunch of lilies and dahlias I brought home from the Market to greet a welcome visitor a couple of weeks ago.
-30-More after the jump.