My love affair with things that are small, secret, quietly lovely or silently remarkable continues unabated. I posted pictures of this delicate fern unfurling last year, and here I am again, enthralled both by its form (fascinating) and colors (achingly subtle). If I think about it too long, I'm positively overcome by the mechanism, the movement, of a fern uncoiling.
Delicate flower on a plant as hardy as they come. The contrast interests me. This is the only shade of columbine in my garden, because it's the one variety tough enough to return on its own year after year. I'm a sucker for plants that are both beautiful and independent!
Here are those Stars of Bethlehem that had me awestruck back in February. A few of them are blooming, this one beside a volunteer poppy. This spot was supposed to be new grass, planted in the vacancy left when I moved the garden east, but it was so thick with poppies that I decided to leave off mowing until after they bloom.
My close-ups are abysmal, I know. Sorry about that. You may be able to distinguish the two plants here. The heart-shaped leaves are the American Redbud. They sprout up everywhere, and if you don't move them before they're about 8 inches high, they have already grown a tap root nearly 2 feet deep, making them difficult to dig out. This redbud's companion is poison ivy; those are the notched leaves. I'm not particularly sensitive to it, but Al
is, so the chore of removing it falls to me. Although if it were not for Alan, I'd probably just leave it, because it doesn't bother me, and the leaves are stunning red in the fall. By the way, the long, knife-like leaves are of faded daffodils. All these had to be moved when I was digging out bricks.
My love affair with things that are small, secret, quietly lovely or silently remarkable continues unabated. I posted pictures of this delicate fern unfurling last year, and here I am again, enthralled both by its form (fascinating) and colors (achingly subtle). If I think about it too long, I'm positively overcome by the mechanism, the movement, of a fern uncoiling.
Delicate flower on a plant as hardy as they come. The contrast interests me. This is the only shade of columbine in my garden, because it's the one variety tough enough to return on its own year after year. I'm a sucker for plants that are both beautiful and independent!
Here are those Stars of Bethlehem that had me awestruck back in February. A few of them are blooming, this one beside a volunteer poppy. This spot was supposed to be new grass, planted in the vacancy left when I moved the garden east, but it was so thick with poppies that I decided to leave off mowing until after they bloom.
My close-ups are abysmal, I know. Sorry about that. You may be able to distinguish the two plants here. The heart-shaped leaves are the American Redbud. They sprout up everywhere, and if you don't move them before they're about 8 inches high, they have already grown a tap root nearly 2 feet deep, making them difficult to dig out. This redbud's companion is poison ivy; those are the notched leaves. I'm not particularly sensitive to it, but Al is, so the chore of removing it falls to me. Although if it were not for Alan, I'd probably just leave it, because it doesn't bother me, and the leaves are stunning red in the fall. By the way, the long, knife-like leaves are of faded daffodils. All these had to be moved when I was digging out bricks.
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