Calloused hands signify manual labor.
Dirty fingernails, no matter how unsightly, are always indicative of the tenderness we bestow upon our changelings.
But our surface dirt is no match for the real dirt in the garden: the carnage.
Yes, the carnage.
While figuring out where to plant my new Fritillaria bulbs, I happened upon a monarch butterfly flitting about, seeking sweet delicious nectar from the Tall Purpletop Verbena.
Gasp!
And then I did what any self-respecting blogger and gardener would do: I raced upstairs to get my camera to document the horror, THE HORROR!
And oh, what horror it was! Oh, Mr. Kurtz, you have no idea. Or had. he died. Or was fictional. Or both. So perhaps it doesn't matter what he said, but it certainly matters what I saw.
I felt somewhat bereft, unable to control nature the way gardeners do with plants, or try to do.
And then I realized how ridiculous I must have appeared to the neighbors, who stood on their porches, speechless, mouths agape, staring.
Such horror.
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