Why not just stay in the perfect spot I've picked for you? What restless itinerent spirit drives you to set roots in dry soiless cracks and live awkwardly among a colony of strange folk. Like this lone euphorbia that found itself in the middle of a drift of candytuft. I don't quite have the heart to pull the other one out of the crack in the paving- because I understand that gypsy yearning to move on, to try another place that might end up being the one you call home. There's one more, thriving in the shade of the clematis- who knew that's where it likes it best.
I'm not quite so in tune with the Meadow Rue that towered so high above the others in its first year then plagued me after in its determination to spread itself in every single one of the beds. I've been weeding it out every year since. My expectations lower each year for the ones that remain- they've never had the same glorious vigor of that first one. But they've become familiar faces and every year they suggest another place that might work for them and I say, sure, lets try that.
My relationship with the Red Veined Dock is a little more testy. I don't like its choices and it refuses to co operate when I move them. It sulks literally to death. This year they are growing in the middle of irises, stealing spaces that don't belong to them. This isn't cricket. They can apparently be eaten if harvested in spring. Cue sound of knives being sharpened.
