There's a stretch of irises in bloom in front of the house. They have spread from two small clumps. Some time ago I drove two friends to Concord in search of an abandoned garden they had once found and from which they had taken plants. I followed their directions though I didn't believe they would find the garden again, but somehow they spotted the obscured turn-off on to a dirt road. We bumped along and eventually found the garden. A tangle, overgrown, but thru the wild, matted growth we could see Siberian irises, fresh green spears but no bloom. It must have been early May. I had to stand on the spade to get the point into the root-cemented ground.
This is a particularly fierce strain of iris, an old strain. They spread by seed which pops from seed pods in late fall. I let them spread.
The Siberian invasion does not disturb me, but this weigela shrub, planted by the former owners, overwhelms me, heavily festooned, ongepotchket, faputzt. I'll look at it again today now that the heat spell has broken. Yesterday the temperature was in the nineties. Today in the cold I might welcome such hot lushness. You might think I was talking about people.
