There's an epic story about my herb garden, but that's a tale for another time. Let's talk instead about my decision to adorn said garden with flowers, fair blossoms that would bring color and delight to an otherwise practical plot. Rookie gardener that I am, I opted for sun-loving, butterfly-attracting perennials. I plonked them down in my dense clay/heavily graveled soil and sat back to see what happened.
What happened was this: they died. Withering, horrible, malnourished or bug-ridden or sodden (thanks to untended gutters and a poorly aligned drainpipe) deaths. I wept. I mourned. I tore at my hair (but gently, 'cause seriously? it's not as robust as it was when I was a spry young teen). I swore I would not be the cause of such destruction ever again. Then I forgot all about it for the next six months. I'm pretty resilient. And easily distracted.
Spring rolled round again, as it will, and I replanted my herb garden. Save for sprinkling some poppy seeds about, I'd had done with flowers. As it turned out, though, flowers had not done with me. Much to my surprise, one of the definitively dead perennials exploded to lush, green life.
Umm... wait a minute. Let's take a closer look.
Uh. Guys? I think this might be *stage whisper* alien! Look at those pods, unfurling into exploratory vessels.
You have your red solar panels that collect the energy of our yellow sun to power the pearl-toned communication petals, which in turn link to slender, brightly colored.... erm.... tickling things. See how they menace you!
And then there are the tentacles. Which, if we're being honest with ourselves, are never a good thing. One moment, they're wafting gently in the breeze, the next... WHOOOSH! shooting across the room/yard/galaxy to trap you in their snarly, strangle-y snare.
though that blossom at the bottom left looks as if it just wants to give you a sweet little peck on the cheek. ooo! it's the cuddly alien that overcomes it's warlike nature to become a friend of all mankind... or at least a sufficiently adorable child. awww!
The last thing you, or your fledgeling lemon verbena, will ever see: