I realize I just posted a picture of a marigold on Friday but I am just smitten with this particular bloom and I want to blow it up big and trace the little yellow outline with my eyes, again and again.
I have always proclaimed myself no big fan of marigolds. Frankly, their smell puts me off (I’ve come to tolerate it since they are supposed to repel mosquitoes), but this year the ones I grew from my mother’s second-generation seeds have been such late-blooming troopers that I’ve kind of had to reassess my feelings on marigolds in general. That’s right, internet, I sit around and contemplate flowers on a philosophical level. These grew so big and tall that one time when it rained (stretch your brain; it was more than two months ago), their big stalks — these babies are thick — just flopped over from the weight and then, since I elected to just leave them be — started curling up from the ground and reaching toward the sky again. And then, pow. These little orange blooms started winking at me when pretty much everything else was out there in the heat playing dead, so I’ve been deadheading and saving seeds in anticipation of making sure these guys are everywhere next year. They’re tough. And beautiful.