Tag: Flowers

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Flowers, by Gillian

I was going to begin with the words, my mother loved flowers. But love is such an overused elasticated word that we are never sure just what it means, so I’ll simply say, flowers were among the most important things in my mother’s life. She rejoiced in the look, feel, and smell of them; the art and science of them. She caressed them with her fingers, her eyes and nose, and her mouth as she whispered their names to them. Not only could she identify any flower with its English name, but for many, she also knew the Botanical. As she read endlessly and traveled more she began eagerly to learn their names in French, German, Spanish, or alternate identities assigned to them in other English-speaking countries.
Take just one example; the simple buttercup. Being water-loving plants, these thrive in Britain. Where we lived they grew like weeds but that did nothing to diminish Mum’s appreciation both of and for them.
The morning sun shone on a cluster of the creeping variety, highlighting their soft golden glow still brightened by the dew.
‘Well, good morning my Beautiful Buttercups,’ she might greet them, whispering so as not to disturb them, very gently caressing the velvet gold petals with the tip of her little finger.
‘How are my favorite little Ranunculi this morning? My Ranunculus repens?’
Then perhaps she would slip into an attempt at a French accent.
‘My bouton d’Or.’
‘Coyote’s eyes’, she might add, in dreadfully Humphrey Bogart American.
She had read, somewhere, that in parts of the Pacific Northwest of the United States buttercups are called “Coyote’s eyes” by the native peoples. According to legend, an apparently very foolish coyote was tossing his eyes up in the air and catching them again when an eagle snatched them. Unable to see, the foolish, but evidently extremely creative coyote, made eyes from buttercups.
She would even offer up poems. In the case of the buttercups, all I remember was one by A.A. Milne, famously the author of the Winnie the Pooh stories, which Mum quoted as –
Head above the buttercups,
Walking by the stream,
Down among the buttercups,
Lost in a dream.
Having just this moment looked up the poem for the purposes of this story, I see that she was misquoting. The original begins –
Where is Anne?
Head above the buttercups,
Walking by the stream,
Down among the buttercups.
Where is Anne?
Walking with her man,
Lost in a dream.
How typical of my mother, I think now, that she should leave out the part about a man. Had there been mention of a child, she probably would have suppressed that, too. For her, I see through the magic of hindsight, love of flowers was a way to forget all humans and the pain that relationships with them can bring. She was safe with flowers. I used to witness the look in her eyes when she caressed them, and ache inside. She never looked at me like that. She didn’t caress me like that. Looking back now, I wonder if my dad ever wondered why she never treated him to such adoration either.
My father was the absolute opposite of my mother when it came to flowers, as was the case with most things. To him, they all belonged in a few very simple generic categories. A red flower was a rose, a blue one a bluebell, a white one a daisy, and a yellow one a dandelion. I think he really did have a genuine disinterest in flowers, quite typical of men of his time and place. Vegetables were a man’s plants. Flowers were women’s work. What good were they? You couldn’t eat them. They were simply a waste of valuable space. They harrumphed at their beauty and trampled their delicacy. Dad didn’t want to destroy them, he simply had no interest in them. But I do think his extreme disinterest and feigned ignorance was at least to some extent simply to tease my mother. Referring to a beautiful bed of dancing daffodils, Mum’s precious narcissus, jonquil, daffadowndilly, as dandelions, or the papery translucent lily as a daisy, was inevitable met with a very irritated, ‘Oh, Edward!’ from Mum and a broad wink from my father to me. Did he persist in this as much when I was not there? I have to wonder now.
Whatever the human dynamics, flowers were a source of much joy to my mother throughout her life. My example of the buttercup was played out with practically every flower she ever encountered, whether nurtured in the garden or wild in the woods. The last time I saw her I arrived at the nursing home with an armful of lilacs from a friend’s garden. She reached out her arms; not to embrace me but to gather the flowers to her.
‘Oh, Syringa!’ she whispered: burying her face in the blossoms, burying her nose in the delicious fragrance. A young girl just bringing in the tea looked at me in puzzlement. She was the daughter of someone I went to school with and new my name perfectly well. She scuttled out as fast as she could when Mum broke into –
When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d,
And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night,
I mourn’d, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.
She had a remarkable memory. I do not. I had to look this up from what little of it I could remember, eventually tracking it down in a poem by Walt Whitman.
The second verse reads –
Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring,
Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west,
And thought of him I love.
I had to laugh, even after all these years. Of course, it would be the first verse she quoted, ignoring the second where humans inserted themselves, again unwanted.
It’s OK Mum, I tell her now. We all hope to find whatever gets us through the night. And what could anyone find, in their hour of need, offering more uplift for the spirit, more peace for the soul, than flowers?
© February 2017 
About the Author 
I was born and
raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S.
and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder
area since 1965, working for 30-years at IBM. I married, raised four
stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself
as a lesbian. I have been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty-years.
We have been married since 2013.
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Flowers, by Phillip Hoyle

1915
I’ve watched the Seasons passing slow, so
slow,
In the fields between La Bassée and Bethune;
Primroses and the first warm day of Spring,
Red poppy floods of June,
August, and yellowing Autumn, so
To Winter nights knee-deep in mud or snow,
And you’ve been everything.

Dear, you’ve been everything that I most lack
In these soul-deadening trenches—pictures, books,
Music, the quiet of an English wood,
Beautiful comrade-looks,
The narrow, bouldered mountain-track,
The broad, full-bosomed ocean, green and black,
And Peace, and all that’s good.

Robert Graves
I
was never sure why the romantic tradition never set well with me. I read poetry
in high school and college that usually left me simply wondering what the poet
felt and meant. I didn’t really like romantic sections of books or movies; they
seemed like an interruption to a good plot. I had friends I found interesting,
boys who intrigued me, girls I wanted to date. For school dances I bought
flowers for the girls. For my girlfriend I bought a necklace with a fiery opal.
She was thrilled. But I knew I was following a form I had learned rather than a
feeling that called me into a world of romance. My deepest feelings were for
boys rather than girls, but of course, that attraction didn’t proffer any
romantic images. They just weren’t there; at least I couldn’t find them. In
those days I’m sure that had I read this Robert Graves poem “1915”, I would
have missed the “beautiful comrade-looks” he cited; for in the world in which I
grew up romance, such as was described in poetry, was meant for a special
relationship between a man and a woman.
My
introduction to Walt Whitman was given no homosexual slant. It was interpreted
by a minister/scholar whose enthusiasm for the poet’s work took a theological
slant, one that celebrated all creation. It was the first poetry I could
honestly admit to liking—well besides James Whitcomb Riley’s “Little Orphan
Annie”, Henry W. Longfellow’s “The Song of Hiawatha”, and Vachel Lindsay’s “The
Congo”. It took years to open myself to the idea that Whitman was talking about
romance between two men, like comrades at arms or friends lying together in
leaves of grass.
I
married at age 21. I deeply loved my wife and was so pleased to be entering the
life we chose together. But even after living together, I realized the gifts I
offered her were to her something quite different than they were to me. Her
view of our relationship was romanticized. Mine was enthusiastic and generous
and celebrated love, a la C. S.
Lewis’ writing, especially his book Basic Christianity. I found it so
helpful but eventually I came to realize his view was inadequate, the old Don
speaking long before he had the experience of falling in love, a thing that for
him came late in life.
At
age 30 I fell in love with a man. Then I began to know a bit of what romance
was about. But being such a late blooming flower in that field, it took
twenty-five years more for me to fall deeply in love. For that experience I
thank the most beautiful male flower I ever encountered, Rafael Martínez, whom
I deeply loved in every practical and romantic way the two of us could imagine.
He amazed me one night when he said, “You’re so romantic.”
Using his best English, Rafael wrote in a
card: “My sweet love; I can’t express in
full sentences what my soul and heart feel. My whole life has been changed and
you made everything spin around in me. I am overwhelmed.
“When
I express out and loud I love you, you don’t have any idea of how much I mean
it.
“I
am not just glad to have you. I am extensible and sensible over you (and deeply
in love).”
I
thought that card was better than any love lyric I had ever enjoyed or any bouquet
of flowers I had ever seen. And I too loved Rafael.
© 13 Feb 2017 
About
the Author 
Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his
time writing, painting, and socializing. In general, he keeps busy with groups
of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen
in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He
volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”
He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com
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Flowers, by Lewis T

Roses are red;

Violets are blue;

Unless and until

They come into contact

With Lew.


Oh, I do have a green thumb; it’s about the color of swamp water. Laurin was the horticulturist between us. I used to fill the watering can and lift the 20-lb. bags of potting soil. He made the magic happen. When I order flowers online, they usually arrive pre-dead. A year ago, my ex-wife, who knows me well enough to know better, sent me an amaryllis. Somehow, I was able to keep it alive until it had finished blooming. I followed the directions to the letter as to how to “winterize” the bulbs and preserve them for the next blooming season. In early January, I was supposed to replant them and keep them watered until they bloomed again. I still haven’t done that. I’m afraid that they may actually recover and then I would be on the hook to watch over them for another nine months. If anyone would care to lift this burden from me, I would be happy to give them to you.

© 13 February 2017

About the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth. Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

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Flowers, by Ricky

Seeds are in the soil. Some are purposely planted and some arrive at their location via the whims of Mother Nature. All of them only need sunshine and water to germinate. If the top soil is rich in nutrients, the germinated seeds grow into wonderful specimens of whatever plant the internal DNA guides them to become, whether tree, garden or wild flower, provender, forage, or weed. If the top soil is thin, parched, and poor in nutrients, the germinated seeds only grow into a shadow of what the rich top soil plants achieved.

The cut flower arrangements people buy and send to funeral services are beautiful, colorful, and represent love and

sympathy for the deceased and family members. But the flowers soon lose their glory and beauty as they rapidly fade and wither away, revealing their true identity as being like a whited sepulcher on the outside, but inside being filled with dead men’s’ bones.

So also, are the cut (and therefore – dead) flowers symbolic

of words of love and promises that all too often fade with the withering flowers, thrown out with the trash, and are remembered no more. Better to show love daily with words and deeds of love rather than giving one’s cherished companion dead things to throw away.

People are like flowers. When human seedlings begin to grow in a liquid environment and fed healthful nutrients, the child gets a good start in life. If the parents keep nurturing the child physically and mentally through to adulthood, society will have many mighty oak trees to keep society strong – many willow trees whose flexibility to bend will help society to weather tough and challenging times – many giant sequoias to provide awe, reflection, and respect for all things older than present society. Those children whose parents are not

able to richly nurture, will perchance, grow to be the lesser plants of society being sheltered and protected by the trees. Most of these lesser plants will be garden or wild flowers bringing to society much colorful beauty and variety – unfortunately, some will become weeds.

I am like a perennial flower, trying to blossom every year. Some years I am in rich soil and blossom bright and beautiful. Other years, I am in poor soil and present dull and wilted foliage.

I began life in what to me seemed like fertile, if not rich topsoil. I did not know of any toxicity in my environment. Dad and mom bought a nearby café for my mother to own, work in, and run. Once that was stabilized, I was sent to live in Minnesota with my grandparents – another fertile topsoil location.

I was never bullied in schools. Of course, the Minnesota kids teased me about my California accent, but also became friendly because of it. The accent disappeared during the two school years I was there. When I returned to California with my mom and step-dad, the California kids teased me due to my Minnesota accent, but also became friendly because of it.

As the years came and went, I continued to blossom strong or weak depending upon the soil I was in. When my wife passed away, I was in rich soil but could not or maybe would not partake of the nutrients available. I was an oak tree for my children, but inside I was a weeping willow. After 9-years I finally began to live again when I met 4-men who collectively filled the hole in my heart left by my departed spouse.

Then in 2014 Stephen was diagnosed with leukemia and given 6 to 18 months to live. In December of 2014, Stephen was hospitalized for about a week with 0-blood platelets but treatment for I.T.P. was “successful” so he could go home, but with weekly monitoring. During the next 2-years, Stephen’s blood platelets varied between 110K and 50K on any given weekly test – more or less stable.

Just like with my wife, I had put the possibility of death out of my conscious mind.

In October 2016, three days after taking the Kaiser recommended flu immunization, Stephen’s immune system went berserk. His downward slide to the end began relatively slowly but increased in speed. Of all his friends that I am aware of, I was the only one who had the time and freedom to be with him during this period. On December 11th, Stephen entered the hospital for the last time.

One by one, the doctors tried many treatments, some overlapping. One by one the treatments failed to stop the internal bleeding. I chose to be an oak tree for Stephen while there was still hope but sometime before the 31st, I lost all hope but still remained outwardly an oak tree for Stephen. But my blossoms faded and began to wilt.

On the evening of the 31st, Stephen had given up hope. Myself and his niece Kathy, convenience him to not say anything to the doctors until the morning to see if the latest effort to stop the bleeding had worked. The morning came and with it the doctors. The latest effort did not work. Stephen told the doctors to stop all treatment and revoked his “do not resuscitate” instructions. He was told that in doing so, he would probably die before the next morning. At this point, I became outwardly a weeping willow and spent the majority of my time that day holding Stephen’s hand or arm and rubbing his thigh right up to the end at 10:34pm, 1 January 2017. It was the worst way to start a new year.

After a short while, a gentleman came in to discuss miscellaneous things that Kathy, the only relative present, needed to know and to answer her questions. I was sitting on the couch by the window facing the room door and the others were sitting in a semi-circle facing me. After losing interest in the discussion and spending most of my time looking at Stephen, I noticed that no one had done what they usually do in the movies I have seen. So, I said, “I’m tired of this.”, got up walked over to Stephen’s bed. I reached out and shut his eyes (Yes. You actually can do that.) and then pulled the sheet over his head.

About half an hour later, I was just finishing packing up my things when all the others left the room and started walking down the hall. I finished packing my bag, walked over to Stephen, lifted the sheet, kissed him on the forehead, said goodbye, re-covered his face, and walked out closing the door behind me. That was the last time I saw Stephen.

I have had holes punched in my heart four times in my life. There have been more family deaths, but only four deaths punched holes. I am tired of having holes in my heart. My blossoms are dull and wilting as a result.

It may take a village to raise a child, but it takes a forest to protect the flowers of society. We need more forests and flowers. I need more forests and flowers.

© 12 February 2017

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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Flowers, by Nicholas

I find flowers amazing. They appear delicate but yet can be
strong and resilient. Their shapes and colors vary wildly from the palest
shades to the brightest hews. I have tulips in my yard that are pure white and
some that are so deep a purple as to appear black.
I trace the progress of the season through flowers, what’s in
bloom, what is preparing flowers stalks and buds, and what has finished. Already
I have spotted tiny leaves breaking through the ground in my yard. Within weeks
flowers will appear.
When I lived in San Francisco, I marked the beginning of
spring with appearance in late February of the plum tree blossoms in Golden
Gate Park. Any day now, their pale pink flowers will appear breaking the dreary
coastal winter with their delicate brightness.
Here in Colorado, at the lower elevations, it is the
brilliant yellow of the forsythia that dares to announce Spring. Even though we
have many more weeks of winter, maybe even the worst of winter, ahead, these
tiny flowers will soon appear. I have two forsythia bushes in my yard. The
early one will show blossoms by the first of March. The other one is later by
about a month.
Around St. Patrick’s Day, I will uncover the planter boxes on
the porch and plant pansies with their delightful array of purples, yellows,
oranges, burgundies and splashes of white to brighten those late winter days.
Pansies love the cold and are beautiful in the snow. It’s the summer heat that
will kill them off.
Then some early daffodils will appear, starting what I call
their annual “death march.” I don’t know why this variety shows up so early only
to face hard freezes and heavy snow. But they persist and eventually bloom in
time for a spring snow to crush them. The snow won’t kill them, just bury them.
Fortunately, I also have later varieties with the good sense to wait until the
weather is more favorable.
Tulips are beginning to show up but they seem more patient
and wait out the winter weather to bloom later. A little bit of snow heightens
the brilliance of the colors in bloom. But it doesn’t take much to push them
all to the ground.
When it is safe to come out in late spring, the cherry tree
will overnight burst into white blossoms. And then the iris will show up. When
I was a kid, we called them flags because they bloomed around Memorial Day.
Maybe because of climate change, my iris seem to be almost finished by the end
of May.
Soon the roses will appear and the first bloom is always the
best. My favorite is the bright red rose near the back door.
When the warmth of spring begins to turn into the heat of
summer, the hawthorn trees flower. The white flowers are pretty but they,
frankly, stink. For two weeks, my backyard will smell of rotten fruit. However,
the bees love these malodorous blooms and the yard will hum with the buzzing of
thousands of bees harvesting what must be rich nectar.
All summer, my garden will be full of bees attracted to the
flowers on the herbs I grow. I use the oregano, sage, chives and thyme from the
garden but I think the bees get more use of my herbs. The little yellow arugula
flowers seem to be especial favorites.
I think climate change has altered the flowering time for the
lilies. They used to be a late summer flower with their oranges and yellows.
But now, it seems that they bloom by early July and are finished before August.
Maybe it’s the dry heat of Colorado, but late summer sees a lull in flowers.
And then in September, some come back to life—like the hot pinks and reds of
the impatiens—and bloom again before the cold returns.
Fall brings its own colors as the plumbago produces its
cobalt blue flowers along the front walk. And I know what time of year it is by
the shade of the sedum. Early summer, its flowers are white. Gradually, the
color turns to a pale pink. And in the fall, they deepen to a dark red and then
rust. It’s amazing to watch this one flower change color over time.
So, that’s the year in flowers in my yard.
© 13 Jun 17 
About the Author 
Nicholas grew up in Cleveland,
then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from
work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga,
writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.
Posted on

Flowers, by Ray S

Here is a detour down memory lane or maybe the Primrose Path of flowers. It is a good likely-hood that most of you have trodden both, but it is those thorny Primroses that can tell the more interesting stories, or maybe you don’t talk about that.

One of the questionable benefits of hanging on so long is the memories of another time and place. Things like a Hobo sitting on the back steps eating a handout Mother made for him, or the popular songs like “Minnie the Moocher” and “Brother Can You Spare a Dime?” and of course F.D. R. and the WPA and NRA.

With the above as background I take you to 1933-34 school year to see the Intermediate School’s (Junior High School to you youngsters) spring production of a memorable Gilbert and Sullivan Operetta—the name of which escapes me now. Maybe “the Mikado” or “HMS Pinafore”. No matter, the point of all of this is in deference to the “Flower” topic for our assignment today. The vision you’ll see and hear is one of all 195 pre-teen sopranos—boys and girls alike—straining to the jaunty words of “The Flowers that Bloom in the Spring,” etc., etc.

Here I present another flower. Long ago there was a World War I commemoration celebrated on November 11th called Armistice Day (later renamed Veteran’s Day in 1954). At school we were taught about that war and the terrible loss of lives to our country and our Allies’. In honor of the occasion volunteers and some veterans peopled the street corners with bouquets of red paper poppies, a symbol of Flanders Field where so many rested. With each contribution you received a poppy.

A sudden change of geography and landscape brought a new world of flowers to me. Imagine discovering magnolia trees, Poinciana trees, citrus trees, bougainvilleas, hibiscus in bloom, sights you’ve never seen up north. Those are just a few flowers and horticulture exposed to a kid from Illinois. Florida in 1939 was a complete culture shock.

A return to the land of four seasons and it was time for Victory Gardens, not many flowers except for flowering fruit trees. And perhaps the Junior-Senior Prom and the appropriate gardenia or camellias corsage for a young woman who didn’t have a date until the night before the dance. It was then that I began to wonder why the really sought-after girls didn’t attract me as much as the girls who were well known for their friendliness to dumb little weird boys like me.

Then there were the war years and all of those funereal wreaths, and the Japanese cherry blossom trees in Washington DC.

That war was followed by one more conflict after another until today. Believe me there aren’t enough paper poppies to meet the never ending need.

For all the beauty of nature’s abundant flowers, sometimes I feel when we push aside the curtain of flowers; our flower of the future will be a man-eating species.

And if that doesn’t catch us, there is always Mother Nature’s way—bud-bloom-wilt-and wither and return to where it all originated.

The Flowers that bloom in the spring, tra-la, tra-la.

(I really like being a sensitive, thoughtful pansy—since I can’t be man of my dreams with lots of hair on my chest.) You do the best you are able to.

© 13 February 2017

About the Author

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Marking the Seasons, by Nicholas

I find flowers amazing. They appear delicate but yet can be strong and resilient. Their shapes and colors vary wildly from the palest shades to the brightest hews. I have tulips in my yard that are pure white and some that are so deep a purple as to appear black.

I trace the progress of the season through flowers, what’s in bloom, what is preparing flowers stalks and buds, and what has finished. Already I have spotted tiny leaves breaking through the ground in my yard. Within weeks flowers will appear.

When I lived in San Francisco, I marked the beginning of spring with appearance in late February of the plum tree blossoms in Golden Gate Park. Any day now, their pale pink flowers will appear breaking the dreary coastal winter with their delicate brightness.

Here in Colorado, at the lower elevations, it is the brilliant yellow of the forsythia that dares to announce Spring. Even though we have many more weeks of winter, maybe even the worst of winter, ahead, these tiny flowers will soon appear. I have two forsythia bushes in my yard. The early one will show blossoms by the first of March. The other one is later by about a month.

Around St. Patrick’s Day, I will uncover the planter boxes on the porch and plant pansies with their delightful array of purples, yellows, oranges, burgundies and splashes of white to brighten those late winter days. Pansies love the cold and are beautiful in the snow. It’s the summer heat that will kill them off.

Then some early daffodils will appear, starting what I call their annual “death march.” I don’t know why this variety shows up so early only to face hard freezes and heavy snow. But they persist and eventually bloom in time for a spring snow to crush them. The snow won’t kill them, just bury them. Fortunately, I also have later varieties with the good sense to wait until the weather is more favorable.

Tulips are beginning to show up but they seem more patient and wait out the winter weather to bloom later. A little bit of snow heightens the brilliance of the colors in bloom. But it doesn’t take much to push them all to the ground.

When it is safe to come out in late spring, the cherry tree will overnight burst into white blossoms. And then the iris will show up. When I was a kid, we called them flags because they bloomed around Memorial Day. Maybe because of climate change, my iris seem to be almost finished by the end of May.

Soon the roses will appear and the first bloom is always the best. My favorite is the bright red rose near the back door.

When the warmth of spring begins to turn into the heat of summer, the hawthorn trees flower. The white flowers are pretty but they, frankly, stink. For two weeks, my backyard will smell of rotten fruit. However, the bees love these malodorous blooms and the yard will hum with the buzzing of thousands of bees harvesting what must be rich nectar.

All summer, my garden will be full of bees attracted to the flowers on the herbs I grow. I use the oregano, sage, chives and thyme from the garden but I think the bees get more use of my herbs. The little yellow arugula flowers seem to be especial favorites.

I think climate change has altered the flowering time for the lilies. They used to be a late summer flower with their oranges and yellows. But now, it seems that they bloom by early July and are finished before August. Maybe it’s the dry heat of Colorado, but late summer sees a lull in flowers. And then in September, some come back to life—like the hot pinks and reds of the impatiens—and bloom again before the cold returns.

Fall brings its own colors as the plumbago produces its cobalt blue flowers along the front walk. And I know what time of year it is by the shade of the sedum. Early summer, its flowers are white. Gradually, the color turns to a pale pink. And in the fall, they deepen to a dark red and then rust. It’s amazing to watch this one flower change color over time.

So, that’s the year in flowers in my yard.

© February 2017

About the Author

Nicholas grew up in Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.