My neighbor's backyard is full of these little flowers, spreading in an area where she would just as soon not mow. She lets them go until they are past their prime and mows then. Last year she offered me some for a bare patch in my backyard, but we never got around to transplanting them.
Left to their own devices, though, they found their way to both my back and front yard. I asked for a dispensation for this little clump in front when the lawn mower roared its way around yesterday.
They don't fall within the confines of a flower bed exactly, so their disposition needed settling.
This morning I crouched beside them to take this picture, a cat by my side. They're lovely and hardy and profuse when left to ramble.
If you mow them down, they will come back next year.
Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which is alive today and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you—you of little faith? (Matthew 6:28b-30,NRSV)
There's something thrilling about a little wild flower, popping up unexpectedly, beautiful and joyous. Bright white and Bahama ocean blue, they look like summer and heat and outside and possibility.
On this first day of being 49, I look ahead to new possibilities, hoping to be wild and beautiful and joyous, just like the forget-me-nots, for as long as I last.