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!