Her neighbor, a young man named Leo who was new to gardening, leaned over the fence. “Those zinnias are gorgeous,” he said. “Did you plant them there?”
The zinnias had reseeded themselves.
She knelt in the dirt, brushed aside a bit of old mulch, and smiled. do zinnias reseed
Clara laughed. “Better than some people I know,” she said. “They just need you to be a little lazy in the fall.”
Clara brushed a strand of gray hair from her face. “Nope,” she said. “They planted themselves.” Her neighbor, a young man named Leo who
And every spring after that, she never had to plant zinnias again. She just waited for the volunteers to appear—always in new places, always a surprise, always proof that the smallest things know exactly when to begin.
Clara stood at the edge of the flower bed, hands on her hips. She was a practical woman, a retired botanist who believed in facts over folklore. But every year, the same question tugged at her as the frost crept closer. She knelt in the dirt, brushed aside a
Do zinnias reseed?
