Berry Buffet for a Lucky Robin

At this time of year, colour in the garden is very hard to come by. So, it may not come as a surprise that I stopped dead in my tracks when I came upon this tree during my morning dog walk. 

Wow!

I have seen this tree in previous years, and I have always been stunned by its winter beauty. Unable to identify it in the past, this year I posted some pictures to an online garden group to see if anyone might know what it is. I'll need to do some more research, but it appears to be some type of mountain ash. 

I need this tree in my life! 

I need this tree to get me through the colourless winter months.

Berry buffet for a lucky robin

I was not the only one appreciating this lovely tree. A robin was enjoying a meal, plucking away at the plentiful berries. As i watched the bird, a short little poem came to mind.

Lucky Robin

Snowy day

Berry buffet

Lucky robin has found a place to stay

Robins are usually a harbinger of spring, returning from warmer climates where they spend the winter. In Toronto, though, some robins stay even through the coldest months. For those birds, I imagine this tree will become a favourite lunchtime hangout.

Berries dusted with snow.
More "wow" factor than I can handle

Now, its time for some research on mountain ash or Sorbus trees. I am most definitely adding one to my garden.

Happy gardening!

The Snow is Sticking

It happens every year, yet each year it comes as a surprise: the first significant snowfall in which the snow sticks. Today was that day. A very wet, heavy snow that covered sidewalks and made surfaces slick. Ugh!

The first flakes on the beech

Even though there is absolutely no reason to be caught off guard by this annual event, I often feel caught off guard. That feeling inspired a short poem.

The Snow is Sticking

the snow is sticking
and I am kicking
myself
not yet done 
tucking in the garden

flakes catch and linger
on frozen gloved fingers
yours truly
not yet prepared
for winter's glacial glare

Snow on Bloodgood Japanese Maple

Here's hoping for a mercifully mild and brief winter. Nothing to do in the meantime but write some garden poems and count down to spring.

Happy Gardening! 

Autumn in My Dustpan

This time of year in the garden always amounts to a lot of leaf cleanup. Weeks and weeks (and more weeks) of leaf cleanup. 

A carpet of colourful fallen leaves

I have too many leaves. The garden is surrounded by mature trees that dump their loads of foliage each fall. The cover is so thick that it has the potential to smother everything underneath. So I do my best to manage the leaves. I mulch as many as I can, and I leave the shredded remnants to do their work as a warm, nourishing, and protective winter blanket for the garden. The rest, I rake and sweep into bags that will be taken away to be turned into compost.

Fallen leaves have been a topic of discussion among the gardeners I follow on twitter. I saw a post that returned to me as I was doing my own leaf clean up. It was a picture of a dustpan filled with fallen leaves. It was accompanied by the caption "Autumn in a dustpan." I did a quick search to see if anyone had ever written a poem inspired by those words because they struck me as rather poetic. I didn't find any poems, but I did find dozens of high-resolution stock photos to match the words (who knew that the world needed so many dustpan photos? Lol!) This, in turn, inspired my own picture (see below), and a new poem in the form of a pantoum.

Autumn in my Dustpan   

Autumn in my dustpan
The season not yet done
Fallen golds and crimsons
Echo a blazing sun

A garden season nearly done
Fades into dimmer days
Echoes of a blazing sun
Obscured by skies of grey

Faded into dimmer days
Life hindered by the dark
Beneath fall’s slow decay
A soul’s diminished spark

Life hindered by the dark
Leaves rain upon the land
Sweep up fall’s slow decay
Gather autumn in my dust pan

Autumn in my dustpan

Here's to the annual fall cleanup.  I hope yours is going well.

Happy Gardening.

Bulbs in a Paper Bag

I have been slowly winding down the garden for the season. There hasn't been a frost yet, but it won't be long. One of my jobs this week was cutting back the Gladiolus murielae.

Gladiolus murielae

I have admired these flowers in other people's gardens. When I spotted some corms at the garden centre this spring, I decided to try my luck. It was a good choice. The flowers were fantastic with their white drooping heads held on tall, sturdy stalks about three feet tall. I don't think these tender bulbs would survive the harsh winter here, so I set about digging them up, cutting back the foliage, and putting the corms into storage.

Gladiolus murielae remind me of shorebirds.
Don't ask me why, they just do.

The process of collecting the bulbs and placing them into paper bags in the hope that they will bloom again reminded me of the cycles of the garden and the hopeful outlook of the gardener. This is the poem that came to mind.

Paper Bag Potential

Shake off the dirt

Give the roots a trim

Put the bulbs in a paper bag

Place in a box

Find a dark shelf

Persist through winter's icy lag

Open the bag

Inhale summer's scent

Witness flowers patiently wait

See the green sprouts

Dream of what is to come

Prepare to plant and celebrate

Bulbs in a paper bag

Here's to the potential of all the bulbs, corms, and seeds being collected and prepared for winter storage right now.

Happy Gardening!

The Impossibility of the Redbud Tree

There are so many flowering trees to enjoy during May. The cherry blossoms usually steal the show; the magnolias always make an excellent impression; and, the crabapples have a certain wow factor. For me, though, the Eastern Redbud is the star of the season. 

Eastern Redbud

Before the leaves appear, the Eastern Redbud will put on a spectacular display of bright pink blooms. When the small pea-like flowers fall to the ground, they are just as pretty, painting the garden beds and walkways magenta. I appreciate the redbud for its abundance of flowers. It is also not nearly so common in city settings as the cherry blossoms and magnolias, so a sighting seems extra special. As much as I love it, the tree presents me with a small dilemma.

Pink, pink, and more pink flowers

I love to take photographs of my garden. No matter how hard I try, however, I am never satisfied with my pictures of the redbud. There are good macro photos to be had of the blooms, no doubt, but capturing the character and spirit of the tree as a whole has been somewhat elusive for me. The difficulty in taking a satisfying photo prompted this poem.
  
The Impossibility of the Redbud Tree

The impossibility of the redbud tree

is found in the absence of photos

Four thousand six hundred nineteen

pictures on my phone

Not one among them capably captures

the magenta fireworks

The camera always poised to snap

Once

Twice

Three times

A thousand

Prolific pink on the screen

unattainable lacking incomplete

followed by a disappointed delete

Each erasure evidence of

the impossibility of the redbud tree

Rosy blooms on bare branches

soon crowded with heart-shaped leaves

best enjoyed unfettered

free of mobile technology

there not for the lens

but for my soul to sense

and my eyes to perceive

Another view of the redbud

Redbuds are among the most beautiful of spring flowering trees. Don't let my less-than-satisfactory pictures suggest otherwise.

Happy Gardening!

Cherry Blossoms: Just for Me

And just like that, cherry blossom season is over. This year, the Sakura in Toronto's High Park put on a stunning, if all too brief, display.

Luminescent cherry blossoms in High Park

Equally as stunning, the size of the crowds. I suppose the carnival-like atmosphere is understandable. The last two years of the pandemic have forced us all into a more isolated existence, so it really isn't a surprise that the chance to gather outdoors safely would be so welcomed.

Crowds gathered among the Sakura

On the lawn, and on the path.
Winter-weary, pandemic-fatigued
humans everywhere!

The cherry blossom experience prompted me to think back on previous spring viewings of these delicate flowers. While I'm certain there were other people around on these occasions, seeing the cherry blossoms always felt like a very personal and solitary event. The crowds changed that perception this year, and the result is this poem.

Cherry Blossoms: Just for Me

When did everyone discover

the cherry blossoms?

They used to be just for me

Petals of white like floating clouds

a shimmer of pink on the breeze

Beauty as told in fairly tales

transient as fast-fading dreams

The blossoms were my secret 

held close and rarely shared

lavish for a week or two

and then no longer there

The blossoms were mine alone

although there for all to see

The busy cosmos a distraction 

from the allure of a blooming tree

Then the world stopped.

Everyone retreated 

into their heads and into their homes

Trapped by walls and suddenly idle

an ache growing in restless bones

Release arrived two years on

in the rush of restive crowds

free among the Sakura trees

and cherry blossom shrouds 

Cherry blossoms on blue sky

It's nice to see people discover the beauty of nature, but I will selfishly admit that I wouldn't mind if the crowds went away. In a fast-growing city, that's unlikely. So, in the future, I will change my methods. A 4am wake-up for a 5am trip to the park may be what is required to recapture quiet moments among the Sakura.

Beautiful blossoms

Branches laden with flowers

Too many blossoms to count

A cherry blossom cloud

Until the cherry blossoms can be enjoyed again, pictures will have to do.

Happy Gardening!

A Winter-Weather Garden Surprise: Winter Aconite

The garden is an inspiration in so many ways. For example, it has been a source of motivation for me as I explore poetry. It also serves an inspiration to my partner who has been working on his watercolours. The other day, I came home to a painting he insisted was a crocus. I didn't recognize it as such, nor did I recognize it as any flower I have ever seen in my garden. 

Winter aconite watercolour painted
by my talented partner in life

On the coldest March 28th Toronto has seen in ninety-nine years, I went out to search for this mystery winter-weather bloomer, and I did not see a thing. I insisted my husband join me to point me in the right direction. He threw on some rubber boots, came outside, and pointed at my crocus drifts. When I showed him that the crocus flowers do not sit on a frilly green bed of foliage and that they are purple, he said "Oh, yeah." (Non-gardeners, am I right?) So we looked a little closer, and just a short distance away found what had been two apparently-significant volunteer clumps of winter aconite. Notice the past tense. Not even these hardy, determined winter bloomers could withstand the day's brutal temperatures (it felt like -17 degrees celsius with the wind chill). The plants had shrivelled in the deep freeze. I was disappointed, but fortunately my husband took a picture earlier in the week to use as reference.

Winter aconite blooming through snow

The appearance of these small flowers (even though I failed to see them for myself) brought about this poem.

Winter Aconite

Push aside the detritus

Disturb the leaf debris

Poke through winter’s wreck

Shine for all to see

Buttercups of yellow

Choirboy ruffs of green

Throttle winter’s poison

With your brilliant golden sheen

Winter conditions continue in the city. I hope to see some defiant winter aconites very soon announcing the imminent arrival of gardening weather.

Happy Gardening!

Reluctant Crocus: A Haiku

March always gives me so much hope, and then it reminds me just a quickly that my hope was misguided. March 2022 has been brutal: cold, grey, and rainy. Crocuses have started to appear in the garden, but they have yet to really shine, staying tightly wrapped up against the elements.

Crocus enduring the March cold

My eager anticipation for my favourite spring flower got me thinking about how these small flowers seem disinclined to make an appearance in the miserable conditions we have been experiencing. Who can blame them? Since there are not many words that rhyme with crocus, my thoughts came out in the form a haiku.

Reluctant Crocus

Reluctant crocus

closed against lingering gloom

patient for star glow 

Colourful crocus waiting for warmth

Against my better judgement, I am holding on to hope that the crocuses will open wide and paint a tapestry of pastels across the garden floor in the week to come.

Happy Gardening!

Sugar Shack

The first sign of spring this year comes not from a flower but from the sugar bush. Temperatures above zero degrees during the day and below zero degrees at night are a good sign the sap is flowing.

The sugar bush waiting to be tapped

I'm lucky enough to be able to contribute to a small, family-run maple syrup operation every spring. My contribution is modest—wash a few buckets, rinse a few lids, tap a few trees, keep an eye on the dog—but the reward is significant: as many bottles of delicious, pure maple syrup as I can carry home.

Buckets ready to collect the sap

No matter the number of years the family has been doing this, the first tap and the first drop of sap are always a delight to experience. After yet another year of pandemic restrictions that forced us to stick close to home, being in nature for the annual tapping felt especially freeing.

Sap drips from a spile

The start of this year's maple syrup operation inspired the following poem. It doesn't follow any particular rhyme or pattern. It simply tries to capture the experience of walking into the sugar bush; of preparing the equipment needed to tap the trees, to collect the sap, and to boil it down; and, after a long, slow boil, enjoying the resulting maple syrup. 

Sugar Shack

Down the forest path
beyond the frozen pond
where the bullfrogs
soon will croak their summer song

Across the crooked bridge
over the cold swollen creek
trickles of snowmelt
run fast and deep

Crunch of ice underfoot
crack of a dying season
the woodland is aroused
with a purpose and a reason

Red maples tower in the bush
white trilliums sleep at their feet
Springtime’s gift is waiting
to flow so pure and sweet

Swing open the doors
of the sugar shack
Wash the buckets
rinse the lids
count the hooks
Look to the trees
drill and hammer in hand
Look to the sun
for warmth
Tap the spile gently
until the sap spills
Collect the elixir
from pails overfilled
Let sticky smoke rise
from the midnight boil
Morning’s reward
ready to taste
a thanks for your sugary toil

The sugar shack and sap bucket

From the sugar bush, here's wishing you all a sweet spring.

Happy Gardening!

I Belong in the Trees: Reflections of a Grocery-Store Orchid

For the second year in a row, my moth orchid is ready to bloom. The buds are plumping up and, just like last year, the flowers will provide a much-needed splash of colour through the never-ending month of February.

Plump orchid buds will be blooming any day

This is quite the achievement for an orchid purchased in a grocery store. Many people will pick one up already in full bloom, enjoy the long-lasting flowers, and then unceremoniously dump the plant when the flowers have faded. Confession: I have been guilty of this myself, but I am working hard to change my ways.

Moth orchid in full bloom (February 2021)

The ease with which some see these plants as disposable got me thinking about orchids. Do they long for their natural habitat? Are they aware of where they come from; of what might have been for them? It made me wonder whether orchids wish they could be more than they are. These plants are often described as exotic and elegant. Are they truly that if they are limited by their circumstances—in this case, their existence on a grocery-store shelf? All of these thoughts resulted in the following poem.

I Belong in the Trees: Reflections of a Grocery-Store Orchid

I belong in the trees

                               stretching

searching for the sun

through dappled light

                               breathing

absorbing the lush heat

of my tropical genesis

                               climbing

ascending on branches

that anchor me to the rainforest

                               clasping

laying hold of surrendered origins

long abandoned to a clear plastic pot

I belong in the trees

                              bending

bridging the distance

between reality and my imagination

I am looking forward to many weeks of colourful blooms from my grocery-store orchid.

Happy Gardening!

The Garden on My Windowsill

Every year when the temperature drops, I attempt (usually unsuccessfully) to overwinter and propagate some plants. This year, herbs in a strawberry planter and begonia and coleus cuttings are growing by the light of the kitchen door and windows (I don't want to talk about the osteospermum and geraniums faltering in the upstairs window). Caring for these plants and encouraging them to grow is a far cry from being out in the sun and gardening in the backyard, but until the sunshine and warm temperatures return, my windowsill garden will have to do.

Herbs, begonias, and coleus in my windowsill garden.
Pancake plant is a bonus

While watering the other day and checking for signs of new life, it occurred to me that these small plants and cuttings are under a lot of pressure.They are growing in less than ideal conditions (probably not warm enough by the back door, and probably not enough light), and yet I expect a lot from them. They carry the legacy of last year's garden and the hope for next year's garden. That's a heavy load for a little plant.

New growth on a red begonia

As I thought about my own anticipation for spring and the hopes I placed into each of the small pots in kitchen, a poem came to mind.

The Garden on My Windowsill

The garden on my windowsill bears the burden

of my eclipsed summer spirit

restless in the cold grey of dark January days

Potted cuttings radiate warmth and colour

standing as sentries against the sudden slump

of my passion and my lifeblood 

Clippings rooted in still water

quench a constant thirst for spring

and absorb my daydreams of green

Of winding climbers that spiral toward blue skies

and creepers that hold the earth close

Of heirlooms that carry a history

and flower beds brimming and grandiose

Of birdbaths alive with splashing and song

and bees dancing above a rainbow of blooms

Of slow walks along brick herringbone paths

on barefoot days under the sun and the moon

The garden on my windowsill relieves the weight of winter

lifting me into the harmony of memories and visions

lighting the cold grey of dark January days

The bright lime green of a coleus cutting
brightens my windowsill

It won't be long before these plants can be transplanted back into the garden (provided I don't fail them before that).  

Happy Gardening!

Summer Memories: The Last Daylily

It would appear that when my ability to garden is limited by the weather, poetry moves in to fulfil my need to be connected to the earth and to be creative. The frigid days of January are here, and I find myself on an extended break due—once again—to the pandemic, and so my mind has turned to dreams of summer and the words that bring the images of my imagination to life. I am working on a new poem. Until it is finished, here is a short reflection I wrote last summer about how brief the garden season is. Not only are the pictures of the last daylilies of 2021, but the poem is the last of my poems for 2021.

Orange daylily in my garden

The Last Daylily

The last daylily bloomed today

The first orange sun

setting on a season just begun

A reminder of time's quick passage

The last daylily of summer 2021

More poems are on the way for the months ahead.  I can feel it!

Happy Gardening!