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Category: flowers

Longest, Greenest

Longest, Greenest

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There’s the dark, shiny green of the holly, and the springy green of the grass, still relatively weedless this time of year. The ferns add texture. Running my hands over their fronds is the way green feels.

But mostly this longest day is about how green looks: light through oak leaves, the ancient rusted tint of begonia foliage, tall green stems in the garden bearing day lily buds and brand-new coneflowers.

Out front by the mailbox a new garden bed sprouts tender morning glory stems and leaves twisting around twine, salvia, verbena and baby zinnias, too.

It’s a riot of green out there, a show of life force. I want to revel in it.

New Dawn

New Dawn

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If I had endless subject matter (which I do) I wouldn’t have to write twice in one week about roses. But roses are on my mind right now. On my mind — and in my sight.

As I write, the petals are oh so softly falling off the New Dawn Climbing rose. It budded slowly this year in the cold spring, then burst quickly into blossom. Night before last it shimmered in the little porch lights, a fairy garden.

I chose this plant from a garden catalog shortly after we moved to this house. I wanted an English cottage garden, and climbing roses would be part of it.

They are the only part of it that survived. Virginia does not have a cool, rainy climate. Astilbe and larkspur don’t flourish here.

But the New Dawn has thrived. It clambers over the pergola, hangs heavy over the glass-topped table.

It is a gracious nod toward projects past, a hopeful sign of projects future.

Roses and Parakeets

Roses and Parakeets

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Today I have only four hours of Winrock work ahead of me then an afternoon and three whole days off. I’m wondering what it would be like to have unlimited time and space. Frightening at first, I imagine, but maybe not. It would be stepping off the carousel into some sort of other time-space continuum with only my own to-do list to guide me.

Here’s the thing, though. I have a hefty internal to-do list. It’s a vague one, needing time and energy to flesh out, and the thought of being face-to-face with it is mildly terrifying.

But still, there are mornings like this, full of blooming roses and chirping parakeets, when I’d like nothing better than to chuck it all and just … be …. free …

Bountiful Begonias

Bountiful Begonias

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Some years it’s the impatiens that rule the yard, other years the day lilies shine. This year, it’s the begonias that are taking my breath away.

They’re big without being leggy. Their whites, pinks and reds are brighter, more intense. They are, hands down, the most attractive flowers in the neighborhood. And I don’t just mean my begonias, the ones in pots on the deck (pictured here), but the ones at the neighborhood entrance and all over the area, they’re gorgeous, too.

Begonias have long been the workhorse annual of the garden. They are cheerful whether dry or wet, and they last well into the fall. There’s a tendency, to discount them, much as we do the always willing friend.

So today, I break ranks, take notice and find the time to say, thank you, begonias, for a summer’s worth of bloom.

The Orchid

The Orchid

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One advantage of sitting near a bank of office windows is enjoying the plants the light makes possible. Look at this beauty, which has been blooming almost a month, it seems. I watched each papery flower emerge along the graceful stem.

The orchid’s owner received the plant several years ago when her mother died. Each bloom is a sweet reminder of her mother’s presence.

And now, because I know the story, the plant has greater presence for me, too, each day of flowering another bid for life. I’m pulling for the plant to live forever.

Rose Before Rain

Rose Before Rain

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The rain moves in soon, up to an inch an hour according to some forecasts. I’m glad I snapped shots of the roses earlier today..

These are delicate flowers, especially when fully open. I shudder to think what they’ll look like this time tomorrow.

For now, though, all is still and calm. The sky has eked out a few drops, but the big deluge is still west of here. Time now to take what we have — late rose and rose hips, yard full of weeds, garden past its prime — and savor it. Before the rain falls.

Ripening

Ripening

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Vines have twined, leaves have greened, flowers have bloomed — but they are only the prelude, the tuning orchestra, the tapped microphone. They are the dress rehearsal for the big show.

It’s a play being enacted in countless gardens and across endless sunny meadows. It’s the ripening of berries, the slow evolution of flower to fruit.
Ripening tests our patience, but nature will not be hurried. I’ve had my eye on these blackberries for weeks — from their waxy white infancy to their lush red adolescence — waiting for them to plump up and ripen into the shiny purplish black that means they’re ready to eat. 
I see this berry patch often on my walks; it’s hiding in plain sight, tucked between two evergreens up against a guardrail. I’ve tried to take each stage as it comes, to enjoy the ripening process. But I’m bedeviled by two questions: When can I eat the little guys? And will the birds get them first? 
Flowery Bower

Flowery Bower

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Early on in my almost three decades (gulp) in this house, I tried to plant an English cottage garden. I’d seen the photos in catalogs and they struck my fancy. I liked the informality, the abundance, the palette.

So with the ardor of a novice gardener I ordered peonies, daisies, astilbe and climbing roses. I hacked my way into the clay soil, added lime and peat moss and gave those plant babies a chance. I watered and mulched and fussed.

The peony produced one flower (with the requisite ants) but never thrived. The astilbes barely lasted a summer. I learned quickly that I needed coneflowers rather than daisies.

But the climbing roses were a different matter entirely. The climbing roses “took.”

So now I have a flowery bower, courtesy of an English cottage rose.

Dining with Roses

Dining with Roses

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There could be worse company, I think to myself as I stand at the deck railing with leftover chicken and salad. The roses are budding and blooming. They are walling off the deck from the rest of the world, forming a flowery screen. And I’m alone with a modest meal, tired of sitting from a long day and even longer commute.

The roses are an antidote. They ask nothing of me other than my gaze. And so, I oblige. I lose myself in their mesmerizing centers, their pink whorls slightly darker than the outside petals. But the overall picture one of pastel loveliness.

Pastels and spring, after all, go together. The color of new life, of shades that have not yet been tested. Hues still wet behind the ears.

Today the temperature will soar and the roses will wilt. But last night, for one perfect al fresco dinner,  I had them all to myself.

Finding the Source

Finding the Source

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I’m skipping the cherry blossoms at the Tidal Basin this year, an annual ritual I haven’t missed in 10 years. This is in part because of the cold-stunted blooms this year and in part because I can’t easily walk to the show.

But cherry blossoms are everywhere. Even on my 12-minute walks around the block. And I’m not the only one who notices.

It’s not a matter of traveling to the source, but of finding the source wherever you happen to be.