Gerber Waning

I wandered around my garden this morning taking photos of hairy leaves of sage, my very last scarlet-colored daylily, and seafood green phlox.  But I uploaded this shot, the first I took.   A trio of Gerber daisies.  Even as a brown-thumbed gardener I know that I'm supposed to deadhead my flowering plants to produce more blooms.  And I will easily snap off the heads of Shasta daisies, all crispy and ready for the dump.  But these Gerber daisies at the end of their life and in the colors of the setting sun, look as beautiful to me now as when they were alive and in full-bloom.  Like an old oil painting where strokes of green, orange and ochre red represent the petals nearly past.  I am in awe of these plants with blooms of orange and red that grow close to the ground under the shade of my monster dahlias.  One of them was nearly bug food but survived.  Most were in shock when first planted and didn't bloom for a month.  But now they share their beauty with me morning after morning and I hesitate to pinch off their graceful old blooms.  There is a whispy beauty in how they age.  I like to think that goes for me, as well.  Again and again my simple and raggedy garden reflects who I am or maybe who I aspire to be.