Green Fortune

Did some pak choi sprouts and a seed packet inspire a poem this week? Why, yes! Yes they did. You never know when inspiration will strike.

Pak choi seedlings grow under a
grow light in my kitchen

Green Fortune

The pak choi grows

on the sunlit sill

I will braise it for you

in brown sugar

and last summer's garlic

I will sprinkle it 

with fresh snipped chives

and flakes from

the hot peppers

we dried

on the line

strung above the kitchen door

Simplicity is 

our green fortune

The seed packet that proved inspirational

The pak choi is the first thing to sprout successfully this gardening year. In my experience, it is an easy green to grow. Perfect for stir fries! The name "Green Fortune" caught my eye just four days ago as I sprinkled a few seeds over soil. To see the sprouts so soon was such a surprise. I'll take this as a good omen for a productive garden and writing season ahead.

Happy Gardening!

Scatter Me

March 2025 has been a miserable month. Cold, grey, and rainy. Today, much of the southern part of the province is recovering from a significant ice storm. After the winter we just had, March has been especially cruel. I count only one really nice day this month, and that is, quite frankly, depressing. March is supposed to offer hope amid the gloom. It has failed to make any effort whatsoever in that regard. Boo!

A half-hearted showing from the crocus.
They tried, but frigid and wet conditions (plus hungry
squirrels) kept blooms to a modest display. 

A few crocus have appeared, and my heart leaped with joy to see them. The flowers, however didn't stick around for long. They barely opened, and when they did, they were quickly devoured by hungry squirrels. I guess the squirrels had a rough winter, too. All this disappointment reminded me of a poem I wrote last year that features my beloved little crocus but whose subject matter is a tad sombre.

A hint of sunshine, but not enough to
coax the blooms to open.

Scatter Me

Scatter me among the crocus
when I’m dead and gone
Let me sleep among the flowers
singing springtime’s earliest song
Leave me be where I was happy
in the woodlands and the valleys

Scatter me among the crocus
when I’m gone

Let me sleep among the daisies
when my time is done
Rest in fields that stretch forever
gaze on skies that go on and on
Leave me be where life was easy
where I felt free and light and breezy
Let me sleep among the daisies 
when I’m gone

Leave me be among the clover
when I’ve seen my final dawn

Lay me down upon the green Earth
that gave so much so long
I have one last chance to nurture
to feed a lasting future
Leave me be among the clover
when I’m gone

Scatter me among the crocus 
when I’m dead and gone
Let me sleep among the flowers
singing springtime’s hopeful song
Leave me be where I was happy
in the soil on dirty hands and knees
Scatter me among the crocus
when I’m gone

A modest display

I hope that wasn't too dark. Perhaps lightening up the mood a bit is in order, so allow me to share this story. I don't remember what inspired this poem. I do remember humming a tune as I put words to paper. It was only after the poem was finished, typed up, and the "save" button selected, that I recognized a familiar cadence and phrasing. I'm pretty sure I wrote a poem set at least partly to the tune of "Oh, Susanna." I guess stranger things have happened.

More crocus will come. The best is still ahead of us.

Happy Gardening (once we eventually get there)!

For Catherine

A colleague of mine called it a career this week and, as these things often go, I found the occasion to be bittersweet. I am happy for my retired co-worker, but sad to see her go. When I met Catherine a year-and-a-half ago, we connected immediately over our love of gardens. For two growing seasons, I was lucky enough to assist her in caring for the flowers around the museum in High Park, Colborne Lodge.

Colborne Lodge, the museum in High Park.
John George Howard and Jemima Howard built 
Colborne Lodge in 1837 as a summer home and
retired there in 1855.

I am not really a warm and fuzzy type and I'm not big on gifts or grand gestures, but I did want to mark this significant milestone in some way. Naturally, my thoughts turned to the gardens around the Lodge, and a light-hearted poem packed with puns emerged.

For Catherine

I'm not great at thank yous or goodbyes
so thistle have to do
A look back at the memories 

of the garden that you grew

Snapdragons and salvia bursting with colour

Tropical cannas bringing the heat

Susans in waves at the height of summer

Phlox and roses make the garden complete

Pink poppies dancing among the trees

Calendula laughing in December

Sweet scent of milkweed and lilac on the breeze

Oh, what a garden to remember

Thank you very mulch for everything

I hope our frondship lasts the test of thyme

John, Jemima, and the Lodge will miss you so

as will your fellow gardener in crime

Pink poppies are a sight to behold in spring

You know it's summer when
the phlox are in full bloom

A mass planting of Black-Eyed Susans signals
that summer will soon be winding down

The astonishing loveliness of Hollyhocks

Happy Retirement!

Happy Gardening!

Birdsong Cabaret

I've really gotten into birds lately, and I'm very lucky that life allows me to attend places where I can see them in large numbers. Even before I took a particular interest in them, I always knew it was spring when the birds would wake me up with their songs early in the morning, before the sun came out and cast light on the day. That happened today for the first time this year, so it must truly be spring.  The experience inspired a Haiku.

Birdsong Cabaret

Four a.m. birdsong
Awakens in darkest day
Earth's bright cabaret

A haiku that happens to rhyme. Is that allowed? Lol.  Here are some birds I've seen recently.

Red-winged blackbird in High Park.
Listen for their unmistakable trill.
Watch out when they are
protecting their nests. 
They will dive bomb you!

American Robin in Toronto.
A true harbinger of spring.

A song sparrow in Tiny Marsh.
Not especially trusting of humans, but
happy to share its song.

Happy Birdwatching! Happy Gardening!

The Blue Flower of Bhutan

In addition to spending a lot of time in the garden, I occasionally write a garden-related poem, and even less frequently, a garden-related short story. In 2019, I wrote a story inspired by two things: blue poppies, which I was lucky enough to see in bloom at Memorial University Botanical Garden in Newfoundland, and an unusual object that I received as a gift from a co-worker. The story is one of my earliest attempts at short-fiction.

Himalayan Blue Poppy at
Memorial University Botanical Garden, Newfoundland
2019

The Blue Flower of Bhutan

        Appalling.  Of course, I couldn’t say that to Meredith but that was the first word that came to mind.  
          “Thank you, darling.  It means so much,” I choked out, overcome by the woodsy Prada Infusion d’Iris she was so fond of.  Meredith kissed me on the cheek and hugged Jerome before joining the small crowd gathered for champagne and hors d’oeuvres at our Bedford Place penthouse.
         “This would never exist in nature,” I said quietly.
          “Well, no,” said Jerome and then, upon further consideration, “but, artistic licence and all.”  I glanced at him sideways, unsure if he was being obtuse or deliberately trying to annoy me.  It was our 35th anniversary and Meredith’s gift of the vase or jar (its practical application uncertain) confounded me.  
          She was my dearest friend.  When Alex was still with us, we four were inseparable, travelling to Giverny and the Gardens of Versailles, racing from Sissinghurst Castle to Chelsea, and roughing it like plebes on the ten-hour bus ride to Monticello.  That was Jerome’s ridiculous idea, embraced with enthusiasm by Alex. 
          “Let’s live a little,” he’d said.  Meredith endured it with good humour, far better than I.  Even at our most undignified, she was a paragon of grace and taste, which made the gift of the vase (or jar, for it did have a lid) that much more perplexing.
          It was a clear glass receptacle adorned by the unsure hand of a fledgling painter, Gwyneth Lucille Reed of the West End Community Art Collective.  This according to the sticker (yes, the sticker) on the base. Gwyn’s feeble artistry, although passable to the untrained eye, was but a middling effort. The vessel’s pedestal, unpolished and speckled with impurities, was enough to elicit a collective strangled breath from the finest glass blowers of Venice.  The garden scene depicted on the body was horticulturally absurd. Lenten roses, Japanese anemones, and the honey-scented bottle-brushes of fothergilla in full vigour, all at the same time.  I could forgive the confluence of flowering.  After all, one must have room in life for whimsy.  The colour pallet, though, was indefensible: foliage in shades of algae, pond scum and seaweed.  I was nauseated just looking at it.  The lid was reminiscent in shape, if not pattern, of a woollen tam laid flat. It was edged with a wavy, child-like streak of a brilliant, heavenly blue (the hue its one redeeming feature), but oblivious to the sage advice that blue and green shall never be seen.  Could Meredith think so little of us?  She must have been ill when she picked it out.
          “I like it,” said Jerome, biting into a savoury canapé.  “Reminds me of Bhutan.” Bhutan. Home of the Dragon King, the Gross National Happiness Index and one of the rarest blooms on earth.  

        It must have been a decade prior that we’d set out, the four us, at Alex’s urging to discover the enthralling Himalayan Blue Poppy.
        “Late spring.  Best for the quest,” explained Alex.  “We’ll need a month’s travel time, at least.”  He’d been unwell that winter (an especially severe flare-up of his chronic bronchitis), but he’d insisted he would be fit for adventure.  The unrelenting rains and high altitude, however, stole his breath away.

        “Go on you two.  We’ll head back,” said Meredith, retreating with a wheezing Alex who had turned a worrisome shade of grey.  Jerome and I resumed our journey up the mountainside, the narrow window to see the fleeting flower quickly closing on us.

        The hike went on for hours (or possibly days).  My knees and knuckles swelled in the cold damp and my legs trembled with the effort of the climb. Jerome, gentleman that he was (and is), extended his hand to me as we followed our guide, closer to our destination with each arduous step. We came upon the small clearing just as the rains subsided.  The shock of disappointment knocked me off kilter.  Cerulean petals, battered by the downpour and fallen from their lofty stems to dot the slope, mirrors of the suddenly clear sky above.

        “Unfortunate,” lamented Jerome. “We came a long way to miss the star attraction.”  He ambled off with his camera toward some unexceptional mosses thriving at the outskirts of the glade.  I came to rest on my aching knees, the sodden blue petals scattered on the ground before me.

        “All for nought,” Jerome announced when we joined Meredith and Alex again later that week.

        “Surely not!” cried Alex.  The colour had returned to his face.

        “Peak bloom,” said Jerome.  “Missed it by a day, maybe an hour.”

        “Bollocks, old man!”

        “The only old man here is you,” teased Meredith.  With an elegant wave of her dancer’s hand, she signalled to the hotel staff.  In a matter of moments, we were dipping our fingers into rice and curries, dumplings and spicy cheese, fresh fiddleheads and tender asparagus.

        “A toast,” said Meredith. “To a birthday in Bhutan.” We raised our glasses and drank, reminiscing for hours over the same familiar stories we’d shared countless times before.

        “What about next year, then?” asked Jerome.

        “Nothing so trying as another trek,” I protested.

        “I’ve something unconventional in mind,” announced Alex, raising an eyebrow to tantalize us.

        “More unconventional than this?” Meredith wondered aloud.  Alex paused for dramatic effect.

        “Pilosocereus aurisetus,” he said.

        “Say that again, fast,” challenged Jerome between bites of deep fried bitter gourd.

        “A cactus of Brazil, bearing a splendrous blue fruit.”

        “Well, we’ve not been to South America before,” Jerome observed.

        “Really, Alex?  How about Kew? Or Copenhagen? A sure shot, as they say,” suggested Meredith, “and much less physically demanding.” 

        “Are you calling me old?

        “I already did.”

        “Alluring gardens, of course, my sweet, but what could compare to a true blue as witnessed in its natural habitat?” My eyelids, heavy with with sweet wine and rum, snapped open at Alex's words.

        “Indeed,” I said, reaching into my bag to retrieve a celebratory offering. “It’s somewhat removed from its native domain. Nevertheless,” I said, “for you.” Alex carefully peeled away the decorative wrap unveiling a botanical watercolour awash in azure and sheathed in a plastic sleeve.

        “Outstanding,” he said, examining the canvas.  Inscribed across the bottom in a handsome script: Meconopsis. “Elusive it is,” he sighed, “and elusive it shall remain.”

        “Perhaps,” I told him, twirling my finger to indicate he look at the back. An envelope fashioned from tissue paper was tucked into the protective cover.  Alex reached for it.

        “Gently,” I urged.  Curious, Jerome and Meredith leaned in.  Alex unfolded the delicate parchment and gasped at the memento hidden inside: four luminous blue petals pressed to perfection.

        “The guide said take nothing but pictures,” chided Jerome in jest. 

        “Did he?” I shrugged.  Alex, mouth agape, looked from me to the petals and back again.  A smile crept into his eyes.  They glistened with delight.  Soon his entire body shook with laughter.  His absolute glee. I remember it now.  Like yesterday.

          I spied Meredith across the room sipping her wine and waved her over.
          “I’ll have to find a special place for this,” I said.  “The blue...” My voice trailed off.  Meredith took my hand and squeezed.  
          “Bhutan,” she said with a small nod.  “He never had the words to thank you.”  My face flushed with shame.  I was a fool for doubting a friendship as precious as a blue-petalled flower on a rugged Himalayan pass.        

Himalayan Blue Poppy at
Memorial University Botanical Garden in Newfoundland
Back when photographs were still taken on film

Himalayan Blue Poppy at
Memorial University Botanical Garden in Newfoundland

So there it is. My short story. I'm pleased that I gave it a beginning, middle, and end, and that I actually finished it. I'm not sure that it's any good, but it was an attempt at expressing myself creatively, which I think, generally for all of us, is a good thing. 

I really wish I had taken more pictures of the blue poppies.

Happy Gardening!