“She” means me. Loving flowers is a cliché, and as someone who normally marches to the beat of a different drummer, it is a little embarrassing to admit how much I love flowers. After all, who DOESN’T??

Oh well. I am 62 years old, and I can say and do (almost) whatever I want. Of course there are consequences to one’s choices, but I don’t see any downside to admitting that I love flowers.

One morning, the local crew of superior weed-eaters showed up at 7. In my opinion, they could have waited a week. However, these guys are popular, and we wanted to get on their list sooner rather than later. And if they come early in the day on a day that isn’t hot, there is less fire danger.

BUT THE HILLSIDE STILL HAD FLOWERS!

So, I was out there at 6:30, doing something I NEVER do: picking wildflowers. The Fairy Lanterns were so good this year. What if we weed-eated (weed-ate?) too soon and there won’t be enough seeds to bloom next year??

At least I have my photos.

Maybe they’ll last longer on the front porch.

How about from the other angle?

Or some close-ups:

Okay, how about seeing them straight-on:

Let’s observe a moment of silence for the end of spring, the demise of the the wildflowers behind my house and everywhere. . .

. . . sigh.