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Category: spring

Wood Poppies!

Wood Poppies!

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As last week’s rains were falling, the great engine of spring was whirring silently. I could see very little change out my office window, but plants were still prepping for a great leap forward. 

At first, the gold of the wood poppies blended with the yellow of the daffodils. But now the smaller flowers are coming into their own. They are filling the far backyard, the part that’s wooded and wild. They are spreading a carpet of bloom.

I just saw a fox pause among the flowers, look around and trot on.  

(The wood poppies in bloom: all that’s missing is the hammock.)

Peep Peep!

Peep Peep!

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This photo may feature baby chicks, but the peeps I’m thinking about come from small frogs, spring peepers.

The racket comes from males trying to attract females (which accounts for much of the racket in the animal world this time of year), and it can grow quite loud along a path I walk that edges a wetland. 

I was glad to hear it yesterday, though. I’d been listening for spring peepers since I arrived home but had missed the distinctive, high-pitched sound. 

Now the little critters have spoken: spring is here to stay. 

A Prediction

A Prediction

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So we have finally come to the end of January, the longest month. I’m convinced it has at least 40 days. No wait, that’s Lent, and it will be arriving soon enough. 

But today we’re in the clear. It’s February 2, and the groundhog has predicted an early spring. Based on the blooming snowdrops and hellebores, on the inch-long daffodil shoots in the front yard and the faint fuzz of bloom on the witch hazel tree in back, I’d say the groundhog’s prediction may be true. 

According to the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Association, though, the rodent has been right only 40 percent of the time. So I won’t pack away the hats, gloves and wool sweaters just yet. I won’t wish him wrong, either.

Maybe May

Maybe May

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It’s May Day, the first day of a glorious month, not a holiday in this country but in many others. I used to tell my daughters, if you’re looking for a lovely time of year to be married, the beginning of May is that time. They were married in April, September and December.  So much for motherly advice. 

But what’s interesting about time and weather patterns is that I wouldn’t say this today. A decade or so ago, early May was a reliably beautiful time of year, prime azalea season, iris yet to pop, plenty of color amidst the green. These days it’s unsettled. We might have such a May 1, but more than likely we won’t. This year’s unseasonably warm winter means it’s looking decidedly summery, though it’s quite chilly, an odd combination, to say the least.

We talk a lot about climate change with its serious implications for life on this planet. But shifts in longtime patterns of growth and maturity, planting and harvesting, affect us more subtly too. They prey on our spirits and mess with our minds. 

(An azalea in its prime … on April 14, 2023.)

Kwanzan Up Close

Kwanzan Up Close

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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.

Stop Time?

Stop Time?

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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.)

The Volunteer

The Volunteer

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Loveliest of trees, the cherry now

Is hung with bloom along the bough.

I don’t have many lines of poetry at my fingertips, but for some reason, I have these by A. E. Housman. Today, I’m thinking about — and looking at — the pale pink weeping cherry in the backyard.

It wasn’t planted, and I wasn’t even aware of it until we almost lost it in the great tree debacle of 2018. But it must have been there, growing slowly and a bit crookedly, trying to reach the light through a thick canopy.  

But now the yard is open, tree coverage is sparse, and the delicate plants, including this earnest volunteer, have a chance to shine. 

Such is the life cycle of a forest, even when the forest is in a backyard.

(This volunteer may be kin to another I wrote about several years ago.)

Springing Ahead?

Springing Ahead?

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Today is our first full day of astronomical spring, though the chilly morning temps make it feel more like winter. We in the mid-Atlantic have been spoiled this year, with snowdrops blooming in January and daffodils in February. It’s been a non-winter. 

Now that we have late light, too, I feel a bit like Punxsutawney Phil, dragged out of his burrow only to dip back in because the sun’s too bright. These late-light evenings, as much as they thrill, can seem like too much too soon. 

There’s a part of me that still craves the lamplit afternoon, the cozy cocooning feel you have in winter, a pot of soup bubbling on the stove, no outside chores calling my name to add to the inside chores that are always with me. 

In other words, winter gives me a pass of sorts. And now … that pass is over. 

Clumping

Clumping

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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. 

May Chauvinist

May Chauvinist

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I know I’m a May (as opposed  to male) chauvinist, but really, what’s not to like about this month?

The climbing rose is blooming its heart out. The Big Heat is just getting warmed up (though it’s early this year, will be 95 here today). And the air is scented with honeysuckle flower.

Schools are letting out, vacations are beginning, days are long and languid. 

I’m grateful to be embarking upon another trip around the sun today. I just snuck into May … but I’m glad I did.