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Category: flowers

Better Late …

Better Late …

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Most of the crepe myrtles in the neighborhood have long since bloomed and faded. The rose and magenta shades have faded to a translucent brown, the petals have dried and fallen.

But for some reason, the lavender-hued crepe myrtle in the front yard always begins and ends its blooming late in the season. Which means that instead of late-summer color, there’s early-fall color. 

I’ve meant to snap a photo against blue skies and puffy clouds. But those days came and went. Instead, yesterday’s rains have weighted the stems and leaves enough that they’re hanging their heads for a closeup.  I snapped a shot of their muted blossoms in between the showers. 

What Remains

What Remains

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Since mid-June I’ve been in fighting mode.  The day lilies were budding and the deer were biting — and I was determined to win the battle this time. Armed with both liquid and granular deer repellent, I spent time each evening treating the flowers, dousing them with so much foul-smelling stuff that I dared any young buck to come near them.

But the young bucks did — and the young does, too. Apparently they were hungrier or more numerous than usual, because, despite all my efforts, the deer have decimated my day lily crop. The brilliant yellow and orange accents to the pink coneflowers … are not there. It’s a sparser and more monochromatic garden than I had anticipated this spring.

It’s easy for me to be discouraged by such matters, as seemingly trivial as they are. But I realized yesterday that I was looking at it all wrong. I was gazing at the garden and seeing what was not there rather than what is.

So I shifted focus. I skimmed over the stripped stalks, the nubs left by the marauding hordes. Instead, I appreciated the coneflowers, the pink ones and the white ones. I spotted the black-eyed Susans that are just beginning to pop. I took a couple of deep breaths and almost — almost — saw the beauty … in what remains.

(The garden a few years ago, when the day lilies still had a fighting chance.) 

Puddles of Petals

Puddles of Petals

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To love a climbing rose means to accept it in all seasons. Last week it was at its peak, green and pink and aromatic, bursting with life.

This week, there are as many petals on the deck as on the flowers. Today, when the wind blows, it’s raining roses. There are puddles of petals at my feet.

It’s easy to mourn the end of the plant’s most bountiful blooming season.  But there is such beauty in the spent blossoms.

Wild Things

Wild Things

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On yesterday’s walk I marveled at the wildflowers — the daisies and clover and honeysuckle — how they hemmed the sidewalk along West Ox where I was huffing and puffing in the late afternoon humidity.

Last night, I fell asleep to a chorus of frog song, as the critters enjoyed a dousing in the thunderstorms that rolled through our area after dark.

Then this morning, Copper and I saw a fox cross the road in front of us. The creature trotted confidently through our neighbor’s yard, turning his head occasionally to stare at us, as if to ask, what are you doing here?

We live in a tame suburb of Washington, D.C. — but we are surrounded by wild things. And yes, they make everything groovy.


(A tip of the hat to the Troggs and their great one-hit wonder.) 

Hidden Blossoms

Hidden Blossoms

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While it’s easy to be captivated by the grand views off the ridges of Shenandoah National Park, one of the prettiest sights I saw yesterday were these pink lady’s slippers. They were tucked behind a stand of (as yet un-bloomed) mountain laurel, as if they were hiding, biding their time. 

Spring is still arriving at 3,000 feet, and many of the trees were still flashing gold at their crowns. Wildflowers we welcomed weeks ago, like buttercups, are in their prime on the slopes.

But no matter the season, the views captivate year-round, whether framed in flaming leaves or spring wildflowers.

The Roses, Again

The Roses, Again

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The climbing roses have burst into bloom. Pale buds are blossoming into creamy pink flowers, are shading the deck table, are hanging overhead even as I write these words.


Does nature produce any flower as lovely as the New Dawn climbing rose? The shiny green foliage, the shy petals, the subtle color, like the barest of blushes.

I trained the roses to shade the deck, to cover the pergola, and now they almost do. As a result, the best view is from a second-floor window — odd, but a feature of this plant, which grows up and out.

And how can you not love a plant like that? One with such high aspirations, with such beauty and patience (because the buds were ready to burst open for weeks it seemed)? One with such poise and determination?

I write about the roses this time every year. I know I’m being repetitive … but I just can’t help myself.

Rough Winds

Rough Winds

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Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May 
And summer’s lease hath far too short a date.

So go the third and fourth lines of Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18, which begins with the lines “Shall I compare thee to a summer day?/Thou art more lovely and more temperate.”

They’ve been in my mind lately as the brisk winds continue to blow and the gray clouds continue to blot out the sun. It’s been one of the coolest springs on record, and is beginning to bother me — not that there’s a thing I can do about it except try to see the positive side.

And that brings me back to Shakespeare. Because the buds, though shaken, are staying buds longer than usual. They aren’t flowering and fading as quickly as they would if our temperatures were topping 80 each day.

A cool spring may try the patience of one who loves warm weather, but it will, for a few days at least, keep time at bay.

(If the bottom photo looks blurry, it’s because the wind was indeed shaking these fully bloomed knockout roses.) 

Fresh Flowers!

Fresh Flowers!

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For Mother’s Day, a harvest of cut flowers. What is it about them? What a joy they are, what an extravagance — a snapshot in time, catching beauty on the fly.

With several bouquets, I’ve been able to scatter them about the house, so that no matter where I look, I see lilies or freesia or mums or tulips, all in pinks and purples and spots of orange.

I know they won’t last, so all the more reason to celebrate them here.

Catkins!

Catkins!

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The oak catkins are back, draping and dropping, falling from trees onto car, lawn and deck. They’re graceful and gritty, ornery and ornamental. They make my eyes water and my sinuses swell.

These male flowers release pollen to the wind, pollen that finds its way to the female oak flowers to make acorns — and eventually new oak trees. But catkins find many detours from their appointed rounds. They hitch a ride on the soles of shoes, worm their way into houses where they burrow into carpets, slide into corners, and get stuck on the shaggy coats of one old doggie I know.

Years ago, during a catkin-heavy spring, my middle daughter, Claire, decided to start a catkin-removal business. She asked our neighbors if they’d like their driveways swept free of the things, and most of them said yes. Claire did a brisk business. She worked hard for hours, pulling her little wagon up and down the street and loading the catkins there after she’d swept them up.

I’ll never forget her trudging home in the late afternoon, full of smiles. She had a few dollars in her pocket, our neighbor’s driveways were pristine — and she’d brought all the catkins home … to our yard.

Respite in the Garden

Respite in the Garden

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Weeds don’t care about viruses. They grow just as robustly during a pandemic as they do any other time. So yesterday I waded into the garden to pull out wild strawberries, dandelions and other invasive plants.

It felt good to have my hands in the earth and the sun warm on my back. It felt normal and pre-pandemic.

The mulch, when I spread it, had that same aroma it always does, and the back yard had the same discouraging bald patches it always does this time of year.  I’m hoping that our hard work now will pay off later — but, as always, I’m not counting on it.

(Violets are one weed I’ll leave alone.)