Flower Power: Harvesting Marigold Seeds

Marigolds -- the last thing standing in the vegetable garden. We planted them there to help keep pests at bay; and besides, they just look and smell nice. 

If it hadn't been for the warm dry weather in which marigolds continue to thrive, and for this post by Janet, I would have made a very silly mistake: I would have finished cleaning up the garden throwing away whatever's left of marigolds -- pods and all.

For some reason it never occurred to me that I can harvest seeds from my marigolds. Well, lesson learned. Here're the pods I've collected today, and there's plenty more where that came from:

Each of these pods is full of seeds. And I could've wasted them!

I'm going to let the pods dry a bit for a few days, although most of them are pretty dry already. Then off to the fun part of fishing the seeds out. I'm curious how many seeds one pod contains on average...

Any guesses? 

Will keep you posted.

Happy harvesting!

Live for the Love of it,

Sasha A. Palmer (aka Happy)

"Doing the garden, digging the weeds..."

"Doing the garden, digging the weeds
Who could ask for more?"

--Paul McCartney wrote these lines when he was sixteen.

An interesting "stripped down" version.

Live for the Love of it,

Sasha A. Palmer (aka Happy)

October haiku

water droplets fall

having wandered the tall skies

return back to earth

It's a gray, rainy first day of October. I love autumn, and rain, but I miss summer today.

This garden sculpture is alive. The expression of this being changes all the time. 

(Don't blink! "Doctor Who" fans will know what I mean.)

My angel is kind.

Live for the Love of it,

Happy

Poetic Asides Poem-A-Day April Challenge Day 9: Work

i am happiest
when i work in the garden
digging up those weeds



Live for the Love of it,
Sasha A. Palmer ("Happy")


written for Poetic Asides

Poetic Asides Poem-A-Day April Challenge Day 7: Love/Anti-Love poem

Longing

I built a small rock garden next to the stone patio, just steps away

from the old kitchen with its nineteen thirties

cabinets that have doors that wouldn’t close refusing to keep

their ghosts locked; I didn’t go far searching, I used the stones

that lay in the backyard, most of them flat –

parts of what once was a perfect border – now buried

underneath the overgrown lawn, when scraped clean their gray

 showed the sparkle in it; the rest –  that

I would like to think were left behind when the frozen

waters retreated melting some years before my time – formed

the crescent-shaped foundation upon which

 I piled the flat ones, building what resembled an Irish wall of sorts,

my small rock garden becoming more of a raised bed, a vessel to be

filled with fresh dirt, parsley and dill seeds

when spring comes after the long wait; on top of the wall

I put two stones with words imprinted on them, the kind they sell

at nurseries, a gift,  “hope” read the one,

the other “joy”, I seem to have misplaced the third one –

“love”.

Live for the Love of it,

Sasha A. Palmer ("Happy")

written for Poetic Asides