Maggie Dietz

Annuals make me sad. Cut flowers, too. I see their beauty—rows of peppery-smelling marigolds lining a walk, vases of orchids and ranunculus arranged with chic, short-stemmed asymmetry. I can enjoy them, but their impermanence transmits anxiety. My temperament is suited to perennials: each spring out of the cold earth, miraculous, phoenix-like, they recreate themselves, often cropping up more lush and sturdy than in the previous season. I’m a sucker for renewal, for second chances. And infinite chances? For all its marvelous impossibility, the notion brims with hope. 

I do like some perennials more than others. When I found out the tall, thick-stemmed blooms that brightened local meadows and my friend’s yard were called false indigo, I was indignant on the plant’s behalf. Beauty is truth, truth beauty, right? If a plant could give a damn about its name, I can only imagine the imposter syndrome.  

One fall I got it in my head to plant stargazer bulbs, and when they roared to life mid-summer they were garish among the understated hostas and bugleweed and still-green sedum. I thought of the picture of Sophia Loren giving the side-eye to Jayne Mansfield’s cleavage. Stargazers are non-native to New Hampshire, of course, and brought beetles to my garden; I sprayed their leaves with neem oil and felt greedy. Not right for my lot, those lilies, but they sure do spruce up a cut bouquet.