Lavender strikes me as lazy. I've got a patchy patch, and every year I imagine the long, limp limbs will blossom into purple profusion. Instead I get a few pale buds and a few pale bees, who labor on bended knee to pry out the pollen.
In spring, a pro dropped by and frowned at the leggy look. Trim, she commanded. And while the idea of cutting back to grow out seemed odd, apparently that's the point of garden shears. Kneeling, I trimmed as told.
In summer, the stumps furred over with pale green needles, then sprouted a tangle of tendrils. Each tendril spiked a small green rocket, tight with tiny green bombs. The bombs burst into purple profusion.
I hummed, happily. The bees hummed, deliriously.
In fall, as the blooms bristle, I shake out their confetti. In winter, it will scent the kitchen sweet and sunny. I shake up a toast to the fragrant flowers: honey, lemon, gin and lavender. Truly, it's the bee's knees.
