The Promise of a Plum

This is the time of year that cold-weather weary Torontonians turn their attention to cherry blossoms, and for good reason: they are beautiful. I love cherry blossoms too, but lately I've been paying attention to a far less glamorous flowering tree: the plum.

A trio of plum blossoms about to open
fully in my west-end Toronto backyard

Years ago, a neighbour gifted me a small plum tree from his backyard. I planted it without too much thought. It was rather unremarkable for several years. Then, in the spring of 2019, it burst into a white flurry of flowers, and later that summer it produced a bumper crop of tart, purple-skinned plums (Damson, I believe.)

Plum Blossom

The harvest produced enough plums to give away to family and friends; enough to make several plum crisps and cobblers; and, enough to make jars and jars of jam that allowed my family to enjoy the taste of late summer all through the winter.

Just some of the 2019 backyard plum harvest

Pitted plums ready for making jam.
The green colour suggests these were 
still quite tart at the time of harvest.

A jar of home-made plum jam.
It did not last long.

This same plum tree is now flowering once again, and I am beyond excited about what the promise of the harvest holds. That feeling inspired the following poem which takes the form of a pantoum.*

The Promise of a Plum 

The promise of a plum begins

amid April blossoms of pristine white
Swollen buds burst from their skins
on barren branches reaching for sunlight

By virtue of blooms of immaculate white

orchards are aroused by anticipation

On barren branches bathed in sunlight
clingstone fruit waits to manifest temptation

In orchards brimming with expectation
Prickly thorns defend plump indigo yields
Yellow-green flesh embodies temptation
In harvests of tartness in late summer fields

Sharp thorns protect smoky indigo yields
Laden branches carry sweetness purple skinned
In harvests of tartness in gold summer fields
The promise of a plum begins 

Plum Blossom 2021

The plum is not a perfect tree. It has sharp, thorny branches that will draw blood if you are not careful (trust me on this). The tree sends up suckers everywhere that need to be managed ruthlessly. The tree drops a significant amount of fruit which attracts wasps. This tree is higher maintenance than I would prefer, but I accept it because of the payoff in flowers first, and plums later.

Plum blossom 2021

Happy Gardening!

*A pantoum is a type of poem that has its origins in Malaysia. The poem, made up of four-line stanzas, can be any length. The second and fourth lines of each stanza (or slightly variations of these lines, as is the case in my poem) become the first and third lines of the stanza that follows. The first and last line of the pantoum are usually the same.  

In Praise of Wordsworth's Daffodils

It is peak season for daffodils in Toronto. I see them everywhere. Their bold yellows and frilled trumpet cups are—simply put—fantastic.  

Cheery daffodils brighten a front-yard
garden in Toronto's Dufferin Grove
neighbourhood 

The beauty of a daffodil, and of nature in general, has always moved me to get outside, to put my hands into the dirt, and to try to connect with our planet in a meaningful way. I never expected that it would get me excited about writing poetry, yet here we are.

Putting words on a page and sharing those words with others is a scary thing. Let's face it, people like to judge; and, judgment can leave a writer feeling a little bit vulnerable. Correction—a lot vulnerable. Nevertheless, I have set a goal of writing poems throughout the garden season ahead. This week, the daffodil was my muse. While busy brainstorming ideas, words and rhyming schemes, I came upon William Wordsworth's "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud." 

Deep sigh. 

Discovering a quintessential poem about daffodils and comparing it to my chicken scratch notes took my poem in a new direction: it's not just about these beautiful flowers, but also about the clumsy, inexperienced poet who tries to describe them.    

  

In Praise of Wordsworth’s Daffodils

I want to write about the daffodils

But Wordsworth beat me to it

I’d like to dance on golden hills

But William was first to do it

Words spill from me like a romantic poet 

But unlike Bill, rhyme falls short and I know it.

I want to wander under the clouds

But Wordsworth has noted the scene

I‘d like to spring lightly among floral crowds

But William has already been

My words are a struggle, they never quite fit

I wonder if Bill would suggest that I quit

The backyard daffodil that never
fails to take my breath away

Take a moment to enjoy William Wordsworth's "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud".  The poem is as lovely as the daffodils that inspired it.

Happy Gardening!

Coltsfoot: Some Dare to Call Me a Weed

Each spring, without fail, a bright yellow flower catches my eye after it emerges from the rocky gravel parking pad that's home to the family car. The soil is deficient and the sun struggles to reach the ground, shaded as it is by neighbouring garage walls and a tall laneway gate. Without complaint, however, a flower blooms. Its common name is coltsfoot, and it is widely considered a noxious weed.

Flowers emerge long before the
leaves of coltsfoot, named so because
the foliage looks like a colt's foot

There's something to be admired about a plant that grows so willingly. As a gardener who has encouraged and nourished and cheered on and tried to bargain with many a plant that has simply given up the fight, coltsfoot's carefree attitude is refreshing. It grows unperturbed in less-than-ideal conditions. I wondered how this perennial might react to being seen as undesirable. The result was the following poem:

Some Dare to Call Me a Weed 

Thyme demands sunshine, only thriving in heat

Umbrella pines whine about soils alkaline

Sages complain about cold, wet feet

Succulent sedums in shadows decline

Irises insist on their own special beds  

Lilacs withhold scent in the shade 

Azaleas shrink from drought with dread

Gerbera daisies in strong sunlight fade

Only I am content in derelict spaces

Fervent in wastelands and disturbed messy places

Arrays of butter bright flowers grow in a bunch

Rooted in gravel where car tires crunch

Florets in the cracks of a path or in ditches

A function of spring, I delight and enrich us

Radiant blooms are spread wide by my seed

And yet, some dare to call me a weed

Coltsfoot growing in gravel

There is a hidden message in the poem above. It's an acrostic poem which means the first letter of each line can be used to spell out a word or phrase. In this case, the first letters spell out the scientific name of this perennial herb. Can you figure it out?

Happy Gardening!

Into the Drift: Ode to a Crocus

Last fall, seven months into the coronavirus pandemic and with a harsh winter looming, I pinned my hopes on spring. I do this every year, but 2020 brought with it, for obvious reasons, an especially intense sense of urgency. Despite limited supplies of fall selections, I ordered whatever I could manage and waited every day for the mail to arrive. When it did, I promptly planted my bulbs (and hopes) in the dirt.

A bee hovers above a crocus in
my Toronto front-yard garden

My first choice for bulbs is snow crocus. I love them. These flowers are among the earliest bloomers (preceded only by snowdrops). Snow crocus appear in early spring and sometimes even in late winter. They are smaller than the showy giant crocus, but I find them to be far more robust; they are hardy in harsh conditions and are happy to bloom abundantly, painting the garden in a spectrum of colours.

The diminutive snow crocus
is garden royalty

Crocus have the biggest impact when planted in drifts.  Drifts are large clusters of flowers that imitate what we might see in nature. Helpfully, crocus readily naturalize. That means they will multiply and spread. If you put six bulbs in the ground this fall, in a few years you will have a much larger collection. After years of adding crocus bulbs and allowing them to flourish, I am finally seeing the drifts I long for.

Crocus drift leaning toward
the light

To me, crocus are more than just a garden flower. They are a symbol of transformation. In the garden, the transformation is one from barren winter to fertile spring. On a personal level, the first crocus nudges me to transform myself: the hibernating bear I become every winter is awakened and ready to live. This power of transformation, in the garden and individually, inspired me to write an ode to a crocus.

Into the Drift

My body aches for summer’s warmth

My eyes are starved for the blush of colour

My idle thoughts are an anchor unformed

My spirit grows darker and duller

Embers of longing spark my depleted vitality

I am impatient for beauty unblemished    

Restless, I wait for spring’s soil-splitting shift

Petals emerge to declare a glowing reality

Melancholy melts, desire is replenished

Unburdened, my heart skips into the drift

I find you in the woodlands and in the meadows

I seek your hints of yellow, white, and mauve

Earthly offerings worthy of departed pharaohs

Purple chalices of perfume amid the groves

You are the first to dream of splendour 

Blooms cascade from your crown of corms

Empress of the garden, you are a grand gift  

Exquisite bouquets fill my senses tender

Each breath sustains and transforms

Unmoored, I float into the drift

The bees waltz among your bold clusters

Sipping nectar from your cups

Insect choirs serenade your exalted luster

I join them with my voice raised up

You are the season’s greatest pageant

Nature’s incantation, her finest opus

Your pastel palettes, hues and tints

Paint vistas of brilliance unimagined

Brushing enchantment upon the crocus

Bewitched, I am drawn into the drift

Cream Beauty Crocus

Happy gardening!