Glory of the Snow

Winter stuck around too long this year, or maybe an especially wintery winter made it seem that way. Either way, it is only now, nearly late April, that we are starting to see some early spring bloomers. Chionodoxa is one of those flowers. It is also known by the name Glory of the Snow for its ability to bloom and delight even when the landscape remains snow-covered.

Glory of the Snow blooming in my garden

I have a good few weeks of poetry production, and I wanted to keep my streak going, so I challenged myself to write a poem about this small flower.

In Greek, chion means snow and
doxa means glory

When inspiration failed to strike and I was at a loss as to where to begin, I decided that format would dictate the process. I decided to write an acrostic poem to speed things along. The first letter of each line of the poem spells something new when read vertically. This ended up being harder than I thought. I spent a lot of time thing of words that begin with "N" or "O".  There aren't as many as you might think. This poem took a while, and I put it away for days at a time. I think the final product turned out okay.

Glory of the Snow
Grandeur waits beneath the snow

Latent until the thaw

Opportune blue tableau

Renders muzzled winter's maw

Yielding to aurora's balm

Opens the cobalt flower

Fabled strength, resilience, calm

Temper winter's power

Hale floral star

Elicit spring's potential

Sing your sweet serenade

Navy veil gently billow

On earth's frosted mantle

Wasting not a chance to sway

Delightful!

Glory of the Snow is a prolific self-seeder. It will multiply and naturalize. For now, it is not considered an invasive plant, and I am glad for that. If I had to yank it out, I would miss the colour it brings to the early springtime garden.

Happy Gardening!

I Planted Winter Roses

The flowers that bloom at this time of year have to be tough. The calendar says April, which brings to mind the sunshine and warmth of spring. The reality, however, is much different. This week alone has brought snow, sleet, rain, gusting winds, and sub-zero temperatures. Through it all, the Hellebores bloom.

Hellebores in bloom

There's a duality to Hellebores. On the one hand, they symbolize peace, tranquility, and new beginnings. On the other hand, there is a negative view of this plant fuelled by both history and legend. Hellebores have been associated with stress, anxiety and scandal. The Victorians associated Hellebores with delirium. In Greek mythology, the plant was used to treat madness. 

Hellebore backlit by sunshine

These negative associations brought up some negative associations of my own. My childhood and early adult years were difficult. One individual was responsible, and I cut that person out of my life as much as realistically possible a long time ago. Life, as a result, is so much better. It's harder to cut out the memories and the lingering emotions, though. They spring up whenever they feel like it. This week, while admiring the Hellebores, I was reminded that the individual who made my life hell once uprooted a holly shrub I had planted and broke every branch with glee. The holly was beyond saving and I was devastated. It was another hurt in a long list of hurts. I tried to capture that tough time in my life in a poem.

I Planted Winter Roses

I shrank away
from your choleric temperament

when the yellow bile rose

and the irrational anger seared

I recoiled from unkind words

spewed with spittle

flinched at the knife cutting

through supper with spite

suffocated in the river of resentment

flowing from the icy headwaters

of your black heart

My flesh stinging

my ears ringing

at the fury of your fist

meeting the steady pulse

of my temple

pounding loose delusions

that the cruelty would end

I withdrew

I hid behind a locked door

I let my wounds weep

The melancholy swelled

and when my soul

could take no more

I stepped outside

Ignoring you

I planted winter roses

Hellebores are also known as winter roses

Hellebores are also known as winter roses, Lenten roses, or Christmas roses. They have no connection to the roses, however. They are part of the buttercup family. Despite the negative associations that come with these early springtime bloomers, the act of planting (regardless of the plant's reputation, earned or unearned) is an act of hope, and sometimes, that is all you need to keep going.

Happy Gardening!

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)!

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!

In Service of the Seasons: Serviceberry

Much like all the winters that came before it, this winter has been a dull, grey, joyless affair.  There hasn't even been a decent dumping of snow to enjoy. It's at this time of year that I appreciate those plants in the garden that provide winter interest such as Mini-Twists Eastern White Pine and Mahonia Grape. It's also the time of year I really appreciate year-round performers such as serviceberry.

Serviceberry produce a cloud of blooms in May

Serviceberries can be grown as small trees or multi-stemmed shrubs. In May, they produce white, five-petalled blooms. By June, serviceberries are dripping with blueberry-like purple berries that the birds love. In autumn, serviceberries produce brilliant fall colours. In winter, they add structure to the garden and look especially lovely holding snow on their silver-grey branches.

The brilliant autumn colour of serviceberry

This small tree for all seasons inspired the following poem.

In Service of the Seasons

In service of the seasons

Grows the serviceberry tree

Standing small and humble

Beneath the forest canopy

No need to be the tallest

Or the grandest of the woods

Plainly a performer

Gifting nature with its goods

Springtime's snow-white blossoms

Alabaster clouds serene

Unveil a budding spectacle

Of fresh woodland's artistry

Summer's purple juneberries

Weigh heavy on the branch

Filling hungry robin bellies

As they hop and step and dance

Autumn's fiery flames

Radiant reds and golds

Wave goodbye to deep blue sky

A lesson in letting go

Winter's silver bark

Catches flakes of falling snow

Brightening the sunless grey

Waiting to bloom and grow

The white flowers of serviceberries

It won't be long until the serviceberries are blooming again.

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!