The Kwanzan cherry had barely begun to leaf this time last week. But the warm temperatures of early April have sent it into overdrive.
I’m spending some time this morning just looking at the tree, observing how the big-fisted flowers bend its branches to earth.
The Kwanzan is not as ethereal as the Yoshino cherry, which typically blooms a few weeks earlier. It’s an earthier, later blossom. It’s best photographed up close, I think, against a bright blue sky.
Speaking of buttercups … spring unspooled slowly through the month of March. Daffodils that bloomed in late February were still with us this time last week.
But in the last few days the season hit fast forward. Our dogwood and Kwanzan cherry were barely leafing out on Monday; now they’re in full flower. Temperatures above 85 degrees will do that to a plant.
I’m hoping that today’s burst of cool air has stopped time enough to preserve “nature’s first green,” which is gold. It’s been gold for weeks now. I hope, against all evidence to the contrary, that it will stay.
(A hyacinth blooms in February.)
This is what happens when I walk. I can be thinking some perfectly sane and responsible thoughts and then a scene like this will trigger the ear worm. For the rest of the walk, I hear the high-pitched voices: “Follow the yellow brick road. Follow the yellow brick road.”
Only I substitute “flower” for brick.
Because, really, isn’t that what you think when you see these bright buttercups, so plentiful this year? Maybe not. But if it’s folly, it’s a folly that flows from a flower, so all is forgiven.
I did follow the yellow-flower road, and it gave me a good workout.
As we move ahead into this strangely early spring, I’m enjoying the flowers that have bloomed and noticing a feature about them that I may not have fully appreciated before … and that is clumping.
There are clumps of Lenten roses, clumps of daffodils and clumps of snowdrops. It’s just the way they grow and spread, I know. But the impression is one of abundance and joy.
It seems that flowers, like humans, enjoy the company of their kind.
Warm winters are always a treat, and so far we seem to be in for one. But I worry when I spot green shoots pushing through the soil or spy the creamy center of a Lenten rose already taking shape amidst the brown leaves from last fall’s raking.
Lenten roses are some of the earliest plants in the garden. But January 12th?
Go back to sleep, I tell the plant, treating it like a still-drowsy baby rising too soon from a nap. Slumber on for a few more weeks, until we know the world is safe for you.
They lasted almost till Thanksgiving, but last night finished them off. I’m talking about the summer flowers, the impatiens I transplanted after a deer took them down and the begonias that took their place.
I snapped a photo of these plants the other night, after I realized how cold it would be. I may have snapped a shot of them earlier, but I was taking no chances. I wanted to preserve their bounty in some way.
Surely the begonias by the front door were princes of plants, their lift and height, their regal presence. And another begonia on the deck, the one pictured above, already wilting a bit, was resplendent in its youth, a gift from a green-thumbed friend, which apparently imbibed some of her plant goodness at the start.
Annuals are the victims of seasonal change. They lack the immortality of the perennial. For that reason, they draw our attention to the fleetingness of life. And for that reason, among others, I honor them.
It’s nothing personal, but sometimes I ignore the second bloom. Roses seem out of place this time of year — even a tease.
Their petals are so smooth and soft, not fluted and dry like the chrysanthemum.They belong to spring, to longer days and shorter nights.
But here they are, a final benediction, a farewell to summer. So I try to take them philosophically, to see in their freshness a promise of spring.
In the continual quest to match music to landscape, today’s choice might seem a bit odd. Who tramps through the suburbs listening to Brahms’ German Requiem?
Someone who loves the piece and believes it ennobles whatever they see while listening to it, I suppose.
And so the stilt grass, that long-legged invasive, looked more like slender bamboo fronds waving. And the Joe Pye weed was more elegant, more proudly purple, than its usual shaggy self.
The shaded trails embraced me, the meadow views broadened my vision, and the pond gleamed golden in the morning light.
It was an ordinary walk made extraordinary by the music in my ears.
The first hummingbirds of the season arrived in late April, right on cue. They cased the joint, supped on the nectar we’d left hanging from the deck, then vanished. We hoped these were scouts who had flown south to share the news with others.
Since those early sightings, though, hummingbirds have been scarce this summer. Only the ants seem to be enjoying the feeders.
But in the last few days, I’ve been spying the little critters. They’ve been feeding not at the feeders but on the zinnias. Turns out those bright happy flowers aren’t just pretty to look at. They’re nutritious, too.
Sometimes the deer do us a favor, although not often and not directly. Because the rapacious critters ate my impatiens while I was away, I wanted to put something in the large flower pots that flank the front door. Begonias have a reputation as deer-resistant, so I found a good deal on four plants.
The favor part of this is that the errand landed me in a part of town I don’t usually visit. And that meant a walk on a sunny and unfamiliar path. I cruised along a road for part of the route, then circled a pond that was luminous with bird and insect life.
Dragonflies buzzed, frogs croaked, birds chirped as they landed on lily pads. A gazebo let me view the scene from a shady perch. Afterwards I took a series of tree trunk steppingstones through the wetland bordering the pond, then strolled through a cool glade.
It was lovely midsummer moment, brought to me (sort of) by the deer.