Why I Plant Cosmos

My first six blog postings were about my friend Mary, and she introduced me to cosmos. I had rented a house, and behind it, the ground sloped down steeply to a creek. “We can plant flowers!” Mary exclaimed with the joy of a gardener who had been forced to spend too many years in apartments. Mary was eager to touch the earth again, and she felt starved for cosmos. “They’re so pretty in a vase,” Mary assured me. So, that spring, Mary brought to my rented house a couple of packets of cosmos seeds.

Judging from the name, I was expecting maybe bright orange flowers like fiery orbs in outer space. I may have been thinking of sunflowers. Little did I know how delicate the stems and petals would be!

A Constellation of Cosmos in My Garden

First, I had to discern the difference between a fledgling cosmos and a weed. I regret to say I probably plucked many of the cosmos seedlings from the soil because I thought they were some other plant that nature had sown and that was not wanted in that location.

   

Eventually, though, I had a good stand of cosmos. Before they bloomed, I was mystified. I could not see what Mary saw in them. Their thin leaves were too thin to be called “leaves,” in my opinion; they looked more like an herb to decorate an entrée. Then pale buttons began to form at the ends of the stems.

One day, I awoke to flowers. Is “gossamer” overused? I hope not, as I want to describe the petals as gossamer. Near the cheerful yellow center, the petals were a hot pink, but the pink cooled toward the petals’ outer ends. Depending on the hour of the day, the angle of the sun, or the presence of clouds, the blooms bore a subtle shade of pale lavender. At other times, they acquired a coral tone.

Mary could not have been more pleased. Out came her scissors, and she began cutting the long stems. I was alarmed. Finally, I said, “Shouldn’t we leave some to enjoy in the garden?” Mary laughed and said, “They’ll keep adding stems all summer.” For the record, I will attest that she cut only enough for a single vase on that first day.

Once Mary had arranged the flowers—which is to say, once she had confined the stems to the vase and had let the flowers arrange themselves—I thought they were ballerinas. They performed with a grand plié and an equally grand jeté! (My cousin Jill, who really was a ballerina, would be proud of my terms!)

Some of the cosmos drooped, others reached up. Some bobbed in the breeze wandering through the kitchen window. Others stood still. They filled their stage with grace. I fully understood why Mary had been so impatient to grow cosmos in my garden. Throughout the season, the plants produced plenty of flowers for Mary’s apartment and my house, too.

Cosmos Like Annual Ballerinas

Ever since Mary helped me appreciate cosmos, I have grown them. Yes, I believe that I have had at least a few cosmos in the flower gardens of every house I have owned. Two years ago, I planted hosts of them within an assortment of flowers forming a border around my vegetable garden, and the elegant blooms danced in vases around my home all summer long. I have come to associate cosmos with the joys of gardening.