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Archive for the ‘The Garden’ Category

Autumn garden, early afternoon, bright light and crystal clear air create a cacophony of color in high definition.

A pair of fully mature zinnias, entwined and surrounded by buds. “Benary’s Giant,” known for dahlia-sized beauty and sturdy stems. Deep Wine nestles Salmon Rose, delicious color capable only when summer has passed, and the sun sits just so on their complicated petals.

Brilliantly delicate strands of gossamer spider web stretch a platform in the foliage just below the blooms.   Lacking symmetry, the web is imprecise, unoccupied, and a large hole has opened, while a trailing wisp floats on the breeze like a cotton candy strand from the State Fair.

In later light, the sunny incandescence of the web dims to a tone befitting a cobweb.  Its utility lost, it whispers of remnants, of time and purpose passed. But right now, the sun warms, the bees bustle the flowers, and the web shimmers.  It is enough.

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‘Tis the season for monarch butterflies in my garden, a broad oasis for butterflies, hummingbirds, pollinators, and passer-by.

For the last several weeks, a solitary monarch has lived here, finding a diversity of blooms and milkweed. Stopping each day in the garden outside my office, it finds the flowers there and flutters on. The only thing lacking was company of its kind.

Four days ago, another monarch arrived. They floated and gamboled high in the sky, and there is no more beautiful sight. Together and apart, they worked their way around the gardens. Yesterday, I watched them follow each other, first one, then the other, to the many tithonia growing here.

Today, expecting to see the two of them, there was only, again, a solitary monarch. I walked to each part of the garden, expecting to see another butterfly lift off, but only a singular monarch floated above and beyond me as I walked.

Rounding on another garden, I saw a bit of orange in the grass.  Still and lifeless, a monarch butterfly lay as if it had fluttered softly down and passed on. From the wear on its wings, my guess is that it was the monarch that waited.  A few brilliant days with good company, and its brief two-to-five-week lifespan ended.

Threatened by habitat loss, pesticide use, and climate change, the population of eastern monarchs has declined by more than 80 percent, according to the World Wildlife Federation. The monarch butterfly was classified as endangered by the International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN) in 2022. The US Fish & Wildlife Service proposed the monarch butterfly for protection under the Endangered Species Act in December 2024.

Unlike so many ecological crises, there are positive steps individuals can take to help save the monarchs. With even a small space you can plant a few milkweeds or create a Monarch Waystation.  Many of the milkweed and nectar plants that support the monarch life cycle are inexpensive, easy to grow, resilient and drought-resistant once established.

Among other resources, Monarch Watch is a great information and citizen science website established at the University of Kansas in 1992. As of August, 2025, there are 52,932 registered Monarch Waystations across the US. Check out the sites in your state.  While the migration of monarch butterflies used to darken the sky as they passed by, today the existence of the butterfly is in question.  Maybe, with enough help, they will survive.

The newly arrived monarch has taken up residence. It flits and floats, maybe it hopes. I know I do.

* * *

Epilogue:  The next day, another monarch arrived.  In the days that followed, there were as many as four at a time in different gardens. And more are rising from the garden itself, the last generation of the season, which will live six to nine months if they survive their autumn migration of almost 3,000 miles to central Mexico.  Godspeed.

 

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Outside

Winter hangs on still green leaves. The autumn lingered this year, and the winter, though timely, blew in on the unsuspecting.

Fluffed flakes swirl from snow bands pushing through overhead.  Autumn has fled.

Winter holds the deep past and the future. Those plants holding leaves are slowly freezing.

It is me that was unsuspecting.

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The Bee and Me

Spreading mulch in my garden, I felt a sharp sting on my wrist.

Guessing correctly, a small bee tumbled out of my sleeve when I shook my arm.

As my skin reddened, the bee crawled on the ground and twisted on its wing near wet grass. I carefully relocated it to a dry wood chip.  The movement of the bee slowed as it tried to crawl and got nowhere. I watched it move one direction or the other, not straying from the flat chip.

The bee’s only defense took its life. A terrible cost for a moment of fear, even if instinctual.

For humans, most of the time, a mistake made in fear does not usually spell death.

I forgot the pain, but not the bee. I checked on it a few minutes later and it lay still.  Ten minutes later though, it was gone.

It was apparently not a honeybee, the only kind that die after stinging, a fortunate turn after an unfortunate meeting.

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Killing Frost

It had to happen.

On this morning, the flowers are more brilliant than before.  Brittle frosted petals, leaves, buds. Deepened color in the autumn garden, a medieval sketch of high linear detail, a confection of final color — red, blue, yellow, green, orange. No feature missed. Paused in perfection, flowers held taut in icy fingers.

With the day, the frost relents, the flowers sag to brown mush. A slow exhalation of the garden into the coming season.  Until next year.

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About 4’ in height, the garden spinner has three wheels of descending size.  Polyester ribbons affixed to each wheel were once brightly colored.  The flag at the base of the spinner, a stitched red ladybug atop a green leaf, points to the direction of the wind.

For the last 20 years, the spinner has held court in the corner of the summer vegetable garden using the breeze, or the winds blustering through, to proclaim its presence. A gentle breeze moves the largest of the wheels first.  A thunderstorm madly propels all three. 

The spinner delighted young children playing in their sandbox or tending the garden. It gaily provided ornamentation at their high school Open House celebrations.  And it stands now, bereft of color, but still fit, in its garden corner.

The spinner has welcomed and harvested the winds of two decades.  It awakens in the Spring, grows quiet as Summer goes to ground in Autumn, and dreams away the Winter in the garage.

At first glance, it is now a tired old spinner whose day has passed.  Is it an artifact too long held for its memory?  While it enjoyed its sunny days, the bluster that overtook this place blew away its color and its more nimble nature.  Visiting this summer, my oldest remarked on its longevity and rightful place in the garden.  Just now, a puff of air moved its wobbly wheels, as it easily pivoted to reveal the direction of the unseen quality that powers it.

The spinner remains.  As stalwart as the day I assembled its plastic and polyester pieces, it fulfills its purpose to translate what is unseen to the visible world.  Not as pretty, but still a structural, kinetic marvel that defies a date with the landfill.

Things change, and sometimes, things remain.

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A half sunflower seed shell appears as a carved-out canoe.

A platform of fallen bark shards accompanied by curling and broken twigs as sturdy as old fallen logs.

The soil, so solid from above, is strewn with composite pieces, glittering jewels, colored, clear, dark, and stacked deep.

Stray autumn milkweed fluff tucks in under the creamy yellow petal of a spring crocus.

The lilliputian delights of the soil become visible when a photograph is repurposed as a computer background.

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The shadows of bush branches outside the window fall on the sunlit wall by my table. 

The wind waves and they dance on the wall and along the tabletop.

Life is in those shadows.  Seasons pass, decades, and the shadows send a signal of what is present somewhere, but not within my reach.

Their impression, more fluid than their being, is energy just passing through of the solid object upon which we are more inclined to focus.

Shadows can traverse time, forward and backward, infinite. While the object that opens that door is even now withering to autumn.

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On Gardening

When you pull weeds, it is a lot easier to see.

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Up the gentle green hill, mid-morning sun dapples through the leafy ring around this landscape. Pick up speed running down again, laughing, arms akimbo, making fluttering shadows in the sun.

What’s it all for?

Once many of us ran our own green slopes when young.  Half a century later, probably few of those young’uns do.  For me, time has collapsed, my future passed, and the timeless summer day comes again. If only for the exhilarating run past sun, shade, and flower on a peerless blue sky day.

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