Flower for the Day Horse Mint 7-17-25

New plants appear in the garden. Sometimes they are gifts from neighbors. sometimes they are brought in by birds. One such garden surprise is horse mint (Blephilia ciliata) which showed up unannounced several years ago.. It is a perennial in the mint family. Its common names include downy wood mint and pagoda plant. It has an unbranched central stem which is square. The leaves are slightly toothed, opposite and fragrant when crushed.

The inflorescence  is a spike toward the end of the stem which grow into separately spaced dense clusters. 

Each cluster has many flowers resting on a pair of leaflike bracts. As you can see they resemble monarda (bee balm which has begun to appear in the field gardens. The horse mint is slightly invasive but that is all right as it is striking especially up close.

           Mint

It looked like a clump of small dusty nettles

Growing wild at the gable of the house
Beyond where we dumped our refuse and old bottles:
Unverdant ever, almost beneath notice.

But, to be fair, it also spelled promise
And newness in the back yard of our life
As if something callow yet tenacious
Sauntered in green alleys and grew rife.

The snip of scissor blades, the light of Sunday
Mornings when the mint was cut and loved:
My last things will be first things slipping from me.
Yet let all things go free that have survived.

Let the smells of mint go heady and defenceless
Like inmates liberated in that yard.
Like the disregarded ones we turned against
Because we'd failed them by our disregard. 

Seamus Heaney

(I love the poetry of Seamus Heaney)

Don's Blog Fox Grape 7-11-25

These fox grapes (Vitis labrusca) grow on our old dog pen fence (we have been between dogs for 20 years).

I have not utilized these grapes but they really flourish here. The vines are native and can be used to make Concord jelly.

 

In contrast to the European wine grape Vitis vinifera, the fox grape has a "slip-skin" that allows the skin of the grape berries to  come off easily when squeezed instead of having to crush the pulps. V. labrusca has a characteristic "foxy" musk  best known through this Concord grape. The musk is not related to the mammalian fox, but rather to the strong, earthy aromas  known by early European-American settlers in the New World. The term "foxy" became a sort of catchall for the wine tasting descriptors used for these American wines that were distinct from the familiar flavors of the European viniferous wines.

Here is another long poem. This one by Robert Frost.

                 Wild Grapes

What tree may not the fig be gathered from?

The grape may not be gathered from the birch?

It's all you know the grape, or know the birch.

As a girl gathered from the birch myself

Equally with my weight in grapes, one autumn,

I ought to know what tree the grape is fruit of.

I was born, I suppose, like anyone,

And grew to be a little boyish girl

My brother could not always leave at home.

But that beginning was wiped out in fear

The day I swung suspended with the grapes,

And was come after like Eurydice

And brought down safely from the upper regions;

And the life I live now's an extra life

I can waste as I please on whom I please.

So if you see me celebrate two birthdays,

And give myself out of two different ages,

One of them five years younger than I look-

One day my brother led me to a glade

Where a white birch he knew of stood alone,

Wearing a thin head-dress of pointed leaves,

And heavy on her heavy hair behind,

Against her neck, an ornament of grapes.

Grapes, I knew grapes from having seen them last year.

One bunch of them, and there began to be

Bunches all round me growing in white birches,

The way they grew round Leif the Lucky's German;

Mostly as much beyond my lifted hands, though,

As the moon used to seem when I was younger,

And only freely to be had for climbing.

My brother did the climbing; and at first

Threw me down grapes to miss and scatter

And have to hunt for in sweet fern and hardhack;

Which gave him some time to himself to eat,

But not so much, perhaps, as a boy needed.

So then, to make me wholly self-supporting,

He climbed still higher and bent the tree to earth

And put it in my hands to pick my own grapes.

'Here, take a tree-top, I'll get down another.

Hold on with all your might when I let go.'

I said I had the tree. It wasn't true.

The opposite was true. The tree had me.

The minute it was left with me alone

It caught me up as if I were the fish

And it the fishpole. So I was translated

To loud cries from my brother of 'Let go!

Don't you know anything, you girl? Let go!'

But I, with something of the baby grip

Acquired ancestrally in just such trees

When wilder mothers than our wildest now

Hung babies out on branches by the hands

To dry or wash or tan, I don't know which,

(You'll have to ask an evolutionist)-

I held on uncomplainingly for life.

My brother tried to make me laugh to help me.

'What are you doing up there in those grapes?

Don't be afraid. A few of them won't hurt you.

I mean, they won't pick you if you don't them.'

Much danger of my picking anything!

By that time I was pretty well reduced

To a philosophy of hang-and-let-hang.

'Now you know how it feels,' my brother said,

'To be a bunch of fox-grapes, as they call them,

That when it thinks it has escaped the fox

By growing where it shouldn't-on a birch,

Where a fox wouldn't think to look for it-

And if he looked and found it, couldn't reach it-

Just then come you and I to gather it.

Only you have the advantage of the grapes

In one way: you have one more stem to cling by,

And promise more resistance to the picker.'

One by one I lost off my hat and shoes,

And still I clung. I let my head fall back,

And shut my eyes against the sun, my ears

Against my brother's nonsense; 'Drop,' he said,

'I'll catch you in my arms. It isn't far.'

(Stated in lengths of him it might not be.)

'Drop or I'll shake the tree and shake you down.'

Grim silence on my part as I sank lower,

My small wrists stretching till they showed the banjo strings.

'Why, if she isn't serious about it!

Hold tight awhile till I think what to do.

I'll bend the tree down and let you down by it.'

I don't know much about the letting down;

But once I felt ground with my stocking feet

And the world came revolving back to me,

I know I looked long at my curled-up fingers,

Before I straightened them and brushed the bark off.

My brother said: 'Don't you weigh anything?

Try to weigh something next time, so you won't

Be run off with by birch trees into space.'

It wasn't my not weighing anything

So much as my not knowing anything-

My brother had been nearer right before.

I had not taken the first step in knowledge;

I had not learned to let go with the hands,

As still I have not learned to with the heart,

And have no wish to with the heart-nor need,

That I can see. The mind-is not the heart.

I may yet live, as I know others live,

To wish in vain to let go with the mind-

Of cares, at night, to sleep; but nothing tells me

That I need learn to let go with the heart.

Robert Frost

Flower for the Day Last Day Lily 7-11-25

This is the last day lily of the year. This planting was three years old when we moved into this house 57 years ago.

They are  old school and lovely. It is amazing that they return yearly.

This is a long poem.  Read it when you don't have something  you must do. Take the time to

enjoy just being with it, as with the lily.   

Poem: Day Lily

In summer, the day lily opens its lavish yellow petals for the sun
and withdraws at night, enfolding itself in a sacred and secret stillness.

This is where the myriad songs of the million birds dwell:
nestled in the throat of the lily.

And in the lily's protective keeping,
a dream of the moon rises over the blue, forested hills
and follows its dream course through a universe of stars,
warm in their remembrance yet cold in their distance,

while the starry winds and the night birds' tentative
twitter nudge the dreamy head of the lily,
whose sleep is the half-held memory of the sun,
and the song of the birds kept safe in their nests.
The lily encloses the whole of earth, night and day, as a flower.

In the moonlight hum of the blue-green valley,
the lambent stream trickles over stones.

Sediment swirls, round rocks
and settles at the bottom of dark pools.

Along the bank, within the soil the hairy toes
of the lily's roots stir
as if to remember:
the stars are sparkling
settling into the streambed
of their earthen home,
and coursing through the lily's veins—
green, languorous leaves arced shadows
in the moonlight.

It is when the lily, like the dream flight of geese at night,
begins to sense within the colder strands of its valley,
warmer winds at interims mingled;
then it slowly begins, just so much,
to rouse: while lapses of the beneficent wind as curved or long,
lingering or swift as the slopes of green hills
and blue oceans beyond the horizon and beneath the sun:
Come like the underwater sway of currents through the tree limbs:

The maple breathes as a breath of wind,
climbs through its limbs and the tree one,
and every leaf, heaves with a faint rising flutter
so soft it holds the thunder of ocean swells
and the night clap of a billion twinkling stars:
a warm wind upon the ear and petal of the lily: opens

Clouds come cumulous and white,
as wave-spawn upon the crests of hills.

Abreast the horizon and darkened forests
there is a silence as of waking in the light of stars
gathered as dewdrops on pinnacles of pines.

The song of birds rises out of the dim reaches
of the forests, as swift-beating hearts and buffy feathers,
little silent eyes swivel curious among the treetops
and a little bird in its nest, somewhat startled,
chirps as if another sang through him:
(a call) and another from hillside to valley and valley to hillside,
again and again in distinct and expanding song
like a thousand-stringed instrument played upon by the cool,
morning breeze: the last whisper of night
and the distant stars,
who are far closer than we have ever imagined.

The face of the earth turns, as if to listen.
The hidden corners of the woods are as familiar
as the presence of one's ear.
And each secretive corner, in the morning light,
is a place made known by a bird's song,
each leaf, limb, tree and incline of slope its singing—
revelation.

The lily blooms beneath the maples.

What dream we face when we arise,
the sediment in our eyes,
can be as tentative as the day lily,
who wakes a dream in its opening though roots
hold it as firm as our feet, which know nothing but of walking.
And though the birds flitting from limb to limb speak
so well of flight, their twig-like feet are the roots,
branches, reeds, and grasses of their earthen bower:
While the roots of the lily, though holding taut,
Still retain a sleeping dream of flight and
Separation from the land

What is this dream?
In the light of day,
have things become so hidden or weary
that all lies latent as sediments of sand
at the river bottom?

And do we long to remember and bathe
suspended in the celestial water of our true home,
our quiet beginnings and silent,
subtle returns to what guides us like the kinship
of the lily and the sun,
or the geese with glossy eyes
on a forgotten, familiar land?

A north star, a sailor needs when lost at sea.
But we do not, when each filament and leaf of earth
and each star can guide us towards our return.
The sun holds us and we are kin to all beings,
and are blessed, greatly blessed to know.

Brother Phap Tue, True Dharma Wisdom, is a monk living in Upper Hamlet, Plum Village.

(From the Mindfulness bell blog)

Don's Blog NIMBY 7-10-25

I have been gardening for many decades and each year the white tail dear population

increases. Nothing I have done has kept them from foraging. The only really successful action 

I have taken is to have the table so full that there is enough left over that I can still enjoy the leftovers. 

Early on they stayed in the back meadow. Now they come to the front yard. They bed down 

in my original day lily garden. 

We spray and try to block them off from certain areas. Yet they are the clear winners.

And all they offer in return are vibes which are unmatched. We watch them grow up -boys and girls.

They disappear and are replaced.  They are like family AND they eat my flowers and sometimes the whole plant.

Life's ambiguities can be maddening.

Don's Blog Bumble Bees 7-9-25

When your garden is flourishing and you need to weed or water or even cut you always 

come into contact with a bumble bee (Bombus). Your first thought is, 'That is gorgeous,'

and then recently (like today), 'Does it sting?'

 Bumblebees are social insects that form colonies with a single queen. They have round bodies covered in soft hair  called 'pile', making them appear and feel fuzzy. They feed on nectar, using their long hairy tongues to lap up the liquid; the proboscis is folded under the head during flight. 

But most important: Yes they sting and it can be painful so be careful. On the plus side the stinger of the bumble bee does not have a barb so nothing is left in place after the sting and bumble bees are not aggressive and sting only in defense. The only issue after a sting is the distant possibility of an allergic reaction. 

So really all you need to do after seeing their amazing beauty is to be gentle and not disturb them.  That action seems to work in all circumstances regarding bees or not.  

Bumble Bee

Quietly on the corolla

Unaware of me

 

Don's Blog Joe Sheds 7-8-25

At the Lake House we have a large black snake (Pantheropthis alleghaniensis) named Joe. If you have followed this blog for some time you have seen images of Joe  including some showing him going slowly into his hole under the front porch. Joe's other common names are black rat snake, central rat snake, chicken snake, midland rat snake, and pilot rat snake. Joe is a  scent-hunter and a powerful constrictor. He feeds primarily on small mammals, birds, and bird eggs. When startled Joe  stops and remains motionless with his body held in a series of wave-like kinks. Joe will also rattle his tail against whatever he is lying on, making an audible buzzing sound which is intended to fool a potential threat into thinking that they've encountered a rattlesnake. Joe will defend himself by raising his head and bluffing a strike. If handled, Joe will musk a victim by releasing the foul-smelling contents of his cloaca, and will bite if necessary. We give him a wide birth but a wound from Joe's bite is reported to rarely require more than a small bandage. Yet he is wondrous.

This weekend my son Gordon found Joe's newly shedded skin.

There was a break in the middle attached to a low branch where he wiggled out of the skin. When put back together Joe's skin shed  measured 6 feet 4 inches. Joe is a big snake.

Joe sheds his skin, a process called ecdysis, to allow for growth. Its hard to believe that Joe is still growing. This process involves  developing a new skin layer underneath the old one.  Fluid builds up between the layers to help loosen the old skin. Then he rubs himself against a rough surface like the low hanging branch to crawl out of it. The old skin is discarded as a snake shaped shell. Joe can shed his skin several times a year but usually once. Theoretically Joe can keep down the mouse population. Unfortunately he does not eat the moles which are sometimes more than pesky.

The Black Snake

When the black snake
flashed onto the morning road,
and the truck could not swerve–
death, that is how it happens.

Now he lies looped and useless
as an old bicycle tire.
I stop the car
and carry him into the bushes.

He is as cool and gleaming
as a braided whip, he is as beautiful and quiet
as a dead brother.
I leave him under the leaves

and drive on, thinking
about death: its suddenness,
its terrible weight,
its certain coming. Yet under

reason burns a brighter fire, which the bones
have always preferred.
It is the story of endless good fortune.
It says to oblivion: not me!

It is the light at the center of every cell.
It is what sent the snake coiling and flowing forward
happily all spring through the green leaves before
he came to the road.

Mary Oliver

Don's Blog Fish Story 7-4-25

Let's get back to nature and take a brief break from our flowers. We have a Lake House 

in Warren County about an hour west of Kirkwood. Over the weekend of the Fourth my son

Gordon and his wife Kelli visited for the celebration at the lake. I fish but Gordon is a

Fisherman. That means I may be successful at times but he routinely catches fish under any condition 

or circumstance. Once when we were backpacking in the high country of Colorado we were on a break.

Gordon cast a lure into a puddle of muddy water in the middle of the trail and caught a small fish. That was nothing compared to what he did this weekend. He actually caught a fish on the roof of the Lake House.

Now you may wonder what this nice size bass was doing on our roof. I could not come up with a good answer

but Gordon's idea was that it got there by falling from the talons of an eagle. We have plenty of eagles and plenty of bass. Gordon caught him with a ladder and a leaf rake. 

Now how is that for a Fish Story. We all know that Fish stories are the best storys.

Flower for the Day Red Hot Poker 7-4-25

Here is a celebration of Independence Day, red hot poker (Kniphofia uvaria). It  is a genus of perennial flowering plants in the family Asphodelaceae, first described as a genus in 1794. All species of Knifofia are native to Africa.. Common names include tritoma, torch lily and poker plant. It is as close as I can get to fireworks.

 

All plants produce spikes of upright, brightly coloured flowers well above the foliage, in shades of red, orange and yellow. The flowers produce copious nectar while blooming and attract bees and songbirds.

 

    Red Hot Poker Haiku

 Hounded by deep thoughts

  

 Like red hot pokers burning

 Through pain to gain peace.

    Sandra Dorey

Flower for the Day Shasta Daisy 7-2-25

The Shasta daisy (Leucanthemum x superbum) is a commonly grown flowering perennial with the classic daisy appearance of white petals (ray florets) around a yellow disc, similar to the oxeye daisy but larger. When I started my garden it was much less common than today. It is truly ubiquitous and for a good reason. It grows so tall that it is spectacular.

and still delicate.

Shasta Daisy

One plant, 

Shasta Daisy, 

owns such easy beauty— 

belies it's enduring nature.  

Needs no coddling; 

infiltrates, 

sprouts boldly year on year. 

Tall, erect, 

flaunts pure white petals around a golden center; 

resists hungry insects. 

 Wizard of plants, 

Luther Burbank, 

absorbed fifteen years to make the purest white color he loved; 

breeding, 

crossing, 

combining four— perfection. 

 Bend down— look: 

brilliant white petals, 

neon yellow center in a spiral nautilus whorl, 

all on a stout green stalk. 

How many petals? 

A perfect thirty four?

She loves me, she loves me not—count for yourself. 

Maybe average.

Paul Geiger

Flower for the Day Yellow Crownbeard 7-1-25

Many years ago yellow crown beard (Verbesina helianthoides) showed up in one of the outer edge natural gardens.

I suspect the birds brought it in. It is a tall, weedy, sparsely-flowered forb that grows in clumps of narrow bright yellow flowers. Yellow Crownbeard enjoys full sun to light shade and can live in large colonies through its rhizomes. It has flourished.

This plant has tall, winged hairy stems that grow 3-4 feet tall. Bright yellow, daisy-like flowers which grow in clusters atop the long stems. It forms an impressive edge.

The flowers consist of 8-15 petals that sprawl out from a slightly darker yellow center disk. The leaves are sessile, toothed, and ovate-lanceolate shaped. The leaves tend to be 2-6 inches in length and appear to have a fuzzy texture.

 

Here is a striking poem I came across the has nothing whatsoever to do with my

yellow crownbeard except inhabiting the same natural world.

        Looking for the Banded Sphinx

++++++ I'd seen clutched last night to the railing
its wings of veined mahogany like a master craftsman's
the way my brother's finest tables
were inlaid in gold and amber

++++++ yet, only the marsh hawk waits
atop the same wooden rail outside the same glass door
its wing-shoulders brownish-gray
as any familiar relative

++++++ and even its flight, when it senses
the small breeze of my arrival, appears
blasé as a loping dog

++++++++++ Last night, the next-door young couples
played guitar as midnight lapsed into new year
sang Jolene in a lusty chorus
that rose and fell like the distant sea pulled
by a stranger's violin

++++++ I ask my husband about the banded moth
Gone, he says, at first light
without a hint of nuance
++++++ the same way wonder disappears, the way
dust becomes fugitive

++++++++++ My eyes trace mid-morning's
pale pentimento of moon
while at the edge of marsh a stalking ibis
is osmosed in plumes of fog
where sun glints cold creek
++++++ and we find no reason to speak
as the hawk melds like another riddle into winter's
moss-draped bones

Susan Craig