All the votes have not yet been counted in the semi-annual garden election, but it appears that the Brown Party, headed by the brutal Jack (“Take-No-Prisoners”) Frost, is trouncing the Green Party. Day by day, more sections of the garden switch parties.
No election is without its scandals, of course. Some accuse Frost of dirty politics. Votes were coerced, they say. Rumor has it that his brutal intimidation is done at night while the gardener sleeps, oblivious to the carnage beneath her windows. Others add that Frost is barbaric, sparing none, returning again and again to seek the few holdouts.
Annuals were the first to be overwhelmed by the rolling tide of Brown. Still, throughout the garden, pockets of resistance are seen. Shasta daisy clumps, still in Green Party garb, huddle to conspire and plan for April’s rematch. Above them a sheltering butterfly bush is still undecided—part green, part brown.
All is not yet lost, however. There are still a few hanging chads to consider. In the lawn, onions bravely caucus to laugh in the face of Frost. Against the driveway edges, strips of Bermuda grass still defiantly wave the green stems of their Party. Next to the house, azaleas settle beside the warmth of the bricks: waiting, waiting, waiting. Beside the wooden fence a lone red floribunda rose is the last staunch holdout.
And then . . . suddenly the word goes out: He’s coming. He’s coming tomorrow night. And it will once again be a landslide. Flower heads bow to the inevitable. This election cycle is all over.
But, beneath the soil, hope hibernates. Just wait, whisper the crocus and daffodils and hyacinths beneath their overcoats of good earth. Just wait. Just wait.
It ain’t over til April when, once again, the fat lady gardens.
No election is without its scandals, of course. Some accuse Frost of dirty politics. Votes were coerced, they say. Rumor has it that his brutal intimidation is done at night while the gardener sleeps, oblivious to the carnage beneath her windows. Others add that Frost is barbaric, sparing none, returning again and again to seek the few holdouts.
Annuals were the first to be overwhelmed by the rolling tide of Brown. Still, throughout the garden, pockets of resistance are seen. Shasta daisy clumps, still in Green Party garb, huddle to conspire and plan for April’s rematch. Above them a sheltering butterfly bush is still undecided—part green, part brown.
All is not yet lost, however. There are still a few hanging chads to consider. In the lawn, onions bravely caucus to laugh in the face of Frost. Against the driveway edges, strips of Bermuda grass still defiantly wave the green stems of their Party. Next to the house, azaleas settle beside the warmth of the bricks: waiting, waiting, waiting. Beside the wooden fence a lone red floribunda rose is the last staunch holdout.
And then . . . suddenly the word goes out: He’s coming. He’s coming tomorrow night. And it will once again be a landslide. Flower heads bow to the inevitable. This election cycle is all over.
But, beneath the soil, hope hibernates. Just wait, whisper the crocus and daffodils and hyacinths beneath their overcoats of good earth. Just wait. Just wait.
It ain’t over til April when, once again, the fat lady gardens.
Text and photograph Copyright 2008 by Edith Flowers Kilgo. All rights reserved. May not be used with prior permission and attribution upon publication.
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