Forgive me, ye gods of gardening, I did not believe.
It was desperation rather than faith that caused me to deadhead the spent blooms, a desperation born of visual weariness of dry twiggy seed heads. Frustration rather than hope was the catalyst for the pruning, and yet ye blessed mine unbelief. In the desert breath of July I smote stalks with my shears, cursing the barrenness of foliage which, once blooming full flush in the swelling springtime, mocked me with stiffnecked willfullness to bear seed rather than flowers. Oh lords of liatris, regents of roses, sylphs of salvia, thine abundance humbles me. From stubby hewn branches new growth emerged, proving now herewith the rewards of my labors in the vineyard. Truly I shall spread the doctrine of deadheading across the land, and testify of its rejuvenating powers. Let these images be a testament of thy glory forever and ever. Amen.